Sunday Bloody Sunday
by Sojourner84
Summary: Still reeling from the revelation of Dean's deal, the brothers hunt down the Hell Gate demons. But one hunt sends them to a place where secrets kill, sins are punished, and Sam and Dean feel the impact of an ageless war. Co. Gaelicspirit and Sojourner84
1. Monday: Pride

**Sunday Bloody Sunday**

**Disclaimer: **Don't own them. Just happy that they're out there. What? They are!

**Spoilers: **The story takes place roughly one month after the end of Season 2's _All Hell Breaks Loose (Part 2)_. Pretty much anything is fair game.

a/n: This story is co-written by **Gaelicspirit** and **Sojourner84**. We have very much enjoyed weaving this tale and hope that you have as much fun reading it. As always, feedback is appreciated, to either or both of us.

Kelly – thank you for seeing what we could not.

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_And the Devil did grin, for his darling sin is pride that apes humility.  
- Samuel Taylor Coleridge  
_

_  
One man come in the name of love  
One man come and go  
One man come here to justify  
One man to overthrow  
- Pride (In the Name of Love), U2_

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Monday: Pride

"Keep reading, Sam! Don't stop!"

His brother's command was like a slap of words upside the head and Sam grimaced as he lost his place one more time in the Latin text. His eyes skimmed the page, eating it up as fast as they could in search of the last word he'd spoken. One word. One damn word was all he needed to re-orient himself in the rite.

His search found _diabolica_ and he started to read again. However, the soft, wet crunch of flesh and bone in a connecting punch tore his gaze from the page once again. _Shit…_

Sam saw his brother stumbling backward, reeling from a blow dealt to his jaw. Dean regained his balance, after he tripped a little, his feet twisting under him until he could plant both soles on the ground firmly. Dean risked a look back at Sam, and Sam could see his lip glistening with blood from the fresh split.

"Sam!" Dean's tone carried with it a desperate plea mixed with understandable annoyance. Either Sam got his act together or Dean would be hard pressed to keep his head attached to his neck.

Sam watched the large Hispanic man, twice Dean's size, move forward to take another swing. Dean stumbled back bringing up his own fists in a taunt. The man stepped forward under one of the warehouse lights, and Sam couldn't find anything but malicious intent in his unnatural, black onyx eyes.

"Dean! It's gonna kill you!"

Dean shot a look over his shoulder as if to say _You think? Maybe you should finish the rite then!_

The possessed man thrust out his tree trunk of an arm and Dean looked back just in time to twist under it and move away. The man's knuckles had missed his already bruised cheek by mere millimeters; the air that passed over his face carried evidence of the force the punch had held. If Sam didn't finish the rite soon, this guy was _going_ to kill him. From the man's size alone, Dean knew a few more glancing blows like the one to his jaw would send his brain smashing into the side of his skull. A direct hit coupled with the inhuman strength of a possessed person could mean lights out… permanently.

"Just goddamn finish it already!" Dean shouted, ducking another swinging fist.

The frantic echo of Dean's voice booming through the warehouse shocked Sam out of his almost mesmerized focus on his brother being beaten to hell. He returned to the rite, skimming faster, wondering why Dean thought pulling a Balboa against a demon was a good idea for a distraction.

Though, it wasn't like either of them had had much time to think of a plan…

_Satana….Satana…I'll take Satana for 300 Alex!_

Sam started reading again, marking the words with his fingers this time.

The guy had come out of nowhere. They hadn't been prepared for this exorcism. The plan to use the devil's trap to help them extract the demon from Andre was screwed the moment they realized he was one step ahead of them. But it didn't matter now. What mattered was finishing the rite before Dean became Andre's heavy bag.

"Hostis humanae…"

Before Sam could finish the line, the air was punched from his lungs as an invisible force gut-checked him. He was thrown backward across the room. The book had flown from his hands the instant he'd been hit and skidded away in the opposite direction. Sam met the ground hard, his limbs pin-wheeling for purchase until he came to rest against a far wall in a disjointed heap.

Dean heard the air rush from Sam in a surprised grunt, his eyes darting across the room, catching the end of his brother's flight as he crushed into the concrete floor. Dean let out a feral growl and ran toward Andre at a full sprint. He crashed into the large man at the waist and pushed him back until they both slammed into one of the support beams at the center of the warehouse. Dean felt the connection impulse through both of them and pushed away to see Andre momentarily stunned.

Dean used that moment to check on Sam, turning to see if his brother was all right. His eyes passed over the half-finished Devil's Trap on the floor of the warehouse. The bastard had ambushed them before they could finish it and now they had to do this without the safety net of a seal. These things were getting smarter; that or Dean and Sam needed to work on their approach. Neither of them could keep going into exorcisms like this. Especially against possessed beings like Andre the Giant here.

"Sammy, you still with me?" Dean yelled toward the heap that was his brother.

Sam was moving as fast as he could, given he'd just experienced something akin to stepping out in front of a speeding car. His whole torso ached and he had to bite back the bile, coughing. He could taste the coppery blood filling his mouth from where his lip had smacked into the ground. He had to wait for his breath to return before he could get to his feet. Holding his abdomen, Sam looked for the rite. He saw the book half wedged under a nearby crate. He looked up, searching quickly for Dean.

"Dean!"

Dean saw Sam's eyes go wide and he turned back to the mastiff of a man who had recovered from his attack. His two meaty, work-roughened hands wrapped around Dean's arms and lifted him off his feet. Dean caught the smirk that crossed Andre's face before he was tossed effortlessly through a nearby dividing wall.

Dean's back connected with the wood-planked wall, sending a resounding shockwave of pain through his whole body, before he crashed through onto the other side. He heard the snap of the wood as he passed through, followed by a high pitched ringing in his ears. He lay there amongst the settling dust and debris, stunned, blind and unable to breathe. He couldn't hear anything except the ringing in his ears until the whine grew louder and eventually came around to thick silence.

As he laid there, his vision slowly shifting from black to a dull, featureless gray, he hoped the snapping sound he heard upon impact hadn't been his spine. His vision speckled back in vibrant stars and he became aware of the wetness running down his forehead and filling his left ear. There was something wet at the back of his neck but no pain…yet. _Breathe_. Why the hell couldn't he breathe in?

The thick silence gave way to a sick pop, as if his ears had just been cleared of water, and he could make out Sam's voice screaming out the rest of the rite in desperation. Dean finally took in a wet, ragged breath, and started to cough. The pain suddenly flipped on like a switch and it was all Dean could do to keep from going back into the dark silence.

He felt hands grab a hold of his shirt. Big, demon-possessed hands that he knew would throw him again if he didn't do something. Dean grabbed the wrists and tried to force the man away from him. It only served to bring a laugh from Andre before Dean was ripped back through the divider and hoisted into the air like he was made of paper. Andre then slammed him back against the wall, the blow rattling Dean's teeth. Dean's back bloomed with pain from where it had connected the first time and he couldn't still his cry.

Sam had gathered up the book after seeing Dean tossed through the wall. His heart was beating a dent into his chest as he continued to read where he'd left off. He was on his feet and walking toward Dean and the demon, nearing the end of the rite. He just had a few more lines and this thing would be gone. He knew it wasn't fast enough when he heard the second crash and saw that Dean had been pulled back through the hole his body had made and pinned to another wall by Andre's massive arms.

Sam read faster and louder, trying not to let the sight of Dean distract him. If he kept hesitating he'd be witness to Dean's death. As he continued he heard the man start to scream and he knew it was working.

_Hold on Dean…_

Dean watched Andre as the rite started to take effect. He was horrified to see the demon actually twisting beneath Andre's skin, moving beneath the surface like something out of one of the Alien movies. _What the hell happened to just leaving in a black cloud? _The thing was tearing Andre apart from the inside, and Dean could feel Andre's hands tighten and twist in his shirt.

Dean tried to take in something that resembled a normal breath, but that was impossible at the moment. The pressure on his chest was suffocating, and after his second introduction to the wall, he'd been trying to keep the darkness away from the edges of his vision.

Dean felt the grip on his clothes loosen and he started to slide down the wall a little. Andre's eyes flashed to a soft, sable brown, the black bleeding away from them for a moment to reveal true human suffering. There was desperation, a pleading in Andre's eyes that sliced at Dean's core, reopening old wounds. In that moment, Dean felt like he was back in Missouri, trying to breathe, trying to stay alive, witnessing his father begging the demon to _stop,_ _just stop_…

The darkness slithered back in over Andre's eyes and Dean was lifted up again and pressed harder against the wall. Dean gripped the man's wrists with his waning strength, pushing back in another attempt to alleviate the pressure, but was only rewarded with another teeth-rattling slam.

"Jesus, Sam, hurry the hell up," Dean wheezed. His voice was too thin, however, and he'd barely heard himself utter the plea.

Dean pressed his eyes shut and focused his entire consciousness on Sam's voice, focused on the cadence of the rite. He breathed in and out to that rhythm, coming back to himself slowly. He opened his eyes and saw the demon smiling up at him with its dead, opaque eyes and arrogant grin. It thought it was winning. _Well, we can't have that..._Dean took the demon's twisted expression as a challenge and tipped the corners of his mouth up in a cocky grin of defiant confidence.

The demon's smile faded quickly, confused by Dean's actions.

"Climbed out of Hell just to possess a butcher," Dean managed to get out, his lips curling. "Seems fitting."

The demon slammed him back again and Dean's vision crinkled to gray at the edges before fizzling back.

"Easy, Fezzik. I'm not wearing a damn black mask…just trying to carry on a conversation."

Andre jerked his head to the right and Dean heard Sam cry out. He looked past the tower of human flesh and saw Sam fall to his knees, the book falling from his hands as he grabbed at his head in pain. Sam's face contorted, and Dean knew the demon was twisting his brother up inside. It looked like Sam was having a vision on Speed as his head snapped up and his back arched.

Dean released Andre's wrists and grabbed hold of the man's throat, squeezing and digging his fingers into the soft, vulnerable flesh of his neck. His hands barely wrapped around, but he was able to press his thumbs forcefully against Andre's windpipe.

"Let him go," Dean ordered.

The demon turned its attention back to Dean and started to laugh.

"You won't kill me," it mocked. "There's an innocent in here with me. He's praying for help now. Begging you not to kill him… to save him. _Por favor, señor. Ayúdeme. Sálveme_."

"Shut up!" Dean growled.

"Easier to do when it's me up front, ain't it kid? When Sam's in danger you don't care who gets in the way. Meg for instance…that guy beating the shit out of Sammy's face in the alley."

Another cry came from Sam's direction and Dean looked past the dark eyes and to his brother whose mouth was open in a silent scream, eyes pressed shut and squeezing out tears. He was slumped against the far wall, writhing, hands reaching out, grasping at air, desperate for release.

"Sa-"

Dean was treated to yet another slam before he could get out his brother's name. This time the ringing returned with the burnt edges of his vision.

"You were the one that wanted to have a conversation, Dean Winchester," the demon reminded him. "We've got a place all picked out for you down in Hell. I know a few souls who've been asking about you."

The mention of his deal blindsided him; he felt himself tremble, needing a moment to recover. He didn't want to know who was asking for him in Hell that was for sure. He knew he'd lost the edge in this verbal combat, and he shook off the words of the demon, hating himself for those few seconds of weakness.

"Your daddy was fun to play with," the demon continued. "Took a while for the man to break, but boy was he a sight when you dug into the right places. The way he'd scream… until his fucking throat bled."

"You can't touch him anymore," Dean growled, his nostrils flaring as he tried again to get free. "He's free, you son of a bitch. And as soon as we send your sorry ass back to Hell, you can say hello to the others we've sent back there."

Three of the Hell Gate escapees had been returned so far this month, and Dean intended to add Andre's demon to that number.

The demon's mouth twisted into a cruel smirk and he nodded. "Your daddy's free…but you belong to us now." The demon laughed to himself, shaking his head. "One year was a fucked up deal, Winchester. There's no way you'll be able to put all of us back in Hell."

Dean pulled the corner of his mouth into a sardonic smile. "I see we made the Demon Newsletter again. That or you're banging the Crossroads bitch."

The demon drew closer and Dean had to turn his head to avoid the sulfur on its breath. "I'm going to enjoy watching you break in eternal death," the thing whispered harshly. "Watching you die slowly here, crumbling apart inside that corpse of yours, is entertaining as well, but maybe I should speed up the process. Kill you today."

Dean was pulled off the wall and the demon ran him back into it, hard. He blacked out this time, unable to stave off the darkness, the silence. When he finally was able to blink open his eyes, his vision folded back like burning paper until he could see Sam standing behind Andre. He was reading the rite and Andre began to writhe again, releasing Dean this time, and backing away.

Dean's feet touched the ground, but his legs folded under him, refusing to support his weight. He collapsed against the wall and slid to the right, landing awkwardly on his side. He lay there, watching Andre back up, clutching his head and screaming. Dean tried to get up and go to help, but he could only manage to push up slightly with one hand before collapsing down again.

Andre was dying. Dean was watching him die. The demon was twisting so violently inside of him that Dean could see it pushing out beneath the skin again. Blood was sputtering from his lips, pouring down his chin, soaking his shirt. He was choking on his own blood.

_Sam! Wait! _

He heard his brother finish the rite and saw Andre fall to his knees. The giant man's head shot back and the demon escaped in a dark cloud, punching into the metal rafters and dissipating.

Sam saw Andre starting to fall forward and he ran to grab his shoulders, sliding in next to him for a save. But the man's weight was too much, too fast, and Sam found himself pinned under his body, staring up into dead eyes.

"Nononono," Sam whispered, knowing Andre was gone, knowing they'd lost another innocent, unwilling to give in. He shoved hard against Andre's shoulder, turning the big man to his back, and leveraging himself up so that he was essentially holding a giant in his lap. "Don't… don't do this." He shook the wide shoulders and the man's large head rolled limply against Sam's pinned thigh. "Goddammit."

"Sam," Dean called to his brother in a strained voice. He pressed his hand against the floor again, working to push himself up, working to move toward Sam.

"Sa—" he started, but stopped suddenly, closing his eyes as the warehouse floor tilted violently and threatened to send him careening across the room.

Dean turned his face down, away from Sam's hunched, dejected form, resting his forehead against the floor. Pressing his fingertips into the concrete, he forced himself to drag in slow, deep breaths. He felt the muscles along his back catch and pull at the motion, but it was the only way to slow the sadistic turn of the earth.

Gritting his teeth, Dean forced his knees up and under him, resting on his forearms, his head still tipped forward onto the floor. He felt the blood from the back of his head run down his neck and across his jaw to drip off of his chin. _Get it together, man… Sam needs you… get your ass off this floor…_

He'd managed to push his arms straight when he felt hands pulling him up and tipping him back slowly. Blinking, squinting, working to focus, he saw the dusty air of the empty warehouse settling around him as Sam sat him up. He turned, hissing as the tender flesh of his back rested against the wall, and looked at Sam who was crouched in front of him, one hand still resting against Dean's shoulder, supporting both of them.

"That's—" Dean started, then swallowed the cough that rose like a wraith in his chest. "That's four," he managed.

Sam leaned forward until he was resting on his bent knees, dropping his hand from Dean's shoulder, his eyes drifting toward the floor. "We lost him, Dean."

Dean didn't miss the subtle shift of Sam's arm as he wrapped it around his middle. That demon had slammed his brother pretty hard. He blinked, licking his dry lips.

"You okay, Sammy?"

"We can't keep losing them, man."

"Not… not what I meant," Dean tilted his head, trying unsuccessfully to push himself forward, adjusting the pressure on his bruised back.

Sam lifted his eyes. "I'll be fine," he said. "You look like crap, though."

"What—" Dean couldn't bite back a second, wet-sounding cough. "What are you talking about? I h-had him against the ropes."

"Uh-huh," Sam shook his head. "Here," he reached for Dean's hand, clasping it at the wrist, and supported him under the shoulder until they were both standing.

Dean felt the room spin drunkenly around him, and bent forward, his shoulder overlapping Sam's in an attempt to remain upright. Sam held still, silently waiting for Dean to regain his balance. After a moment, the world settled back in place, and Dean pulled back, releasing Sam's hand and looked up.

He narrowed his focus when he saw blood on Sam's lip. Reaching up, he grasped his brother's neck, turning his face to the side. There was a gash on Sam's ear and a deep cut at the corner of his mouth.

"Sam—"

"I'm fine, Dean," Sam pushed his brother's hand away. "I'm fine."

_Isn't that usually my line?_ Dean frowned at the shadowed eyes, usually so steady, averting their gaze from his.

"We saved people by getting rid of that thing, Sam," Dean started. "That has to count for something."

Sam slid hollow eyes to meet his. "I'm tired of losing the people we are trying to save."

"Exorcism isn't… easy," Dean hedged. "People don't always make it out—"

"I did," Sam argued.

"That's different," Dean took a step back, thrusting an arm out against the wall to stop his sway.

"Different how?"

"Meg just left you, Sam," Dean swallowed. The room had started a slow, languid turn around Sam. He was having trouble keeping his breath steady. "S-she just left, we didn't exorcise her."

"Yeah…you guys broke the lock," Sam said, his eyes darting down to the faded burn scar on his forearm.

"Right," Dean nodded, immediately wishing he hadn't.

Sam looked over at Andre; the giant man looked small and fragile in death. He'd sworn to himself that this year would be about saving people. Saving _Dean. _And they'd been witness to four deaths in as many weeks since Jake used that damn Colt to open the Hell Gate.

"Sam?"

"Yeah," Sam replied, not looking away from Andre.

"You gotta let it go, man," Dean said.

Sam looked back at him. He knew Dean was right. He couldn't carry the weight of each lost soul if they were going to stop the demons. If he was going to find a way out of Dean's deal. But he felt heavier with each death.

"Let's get outta here," Sam said, reaching out to grasp Dean's arm.

"Gimme a sec," Dean pulled slightly away, not yet willing to leave the support of the wall. He did _not_ want Sam to have to help him out of that room.

Sam's eyes darted over to the Dean-sized hole in the dividing wall. "We keep this up, they're gonna tear you apart, man."

"You just gotta read faster is all," Dean argued, eyes on the ground, focusing on breathing, willing the rotation of the earth to just slow the hell down already.

"This one knew, Dean. He jumped us before we even finished the Devil's Trap."

"I know, Sam. I was there, remember? Big fists swinging, body flying, the whole nine yards."

Sam sighed and Dean dragged his eyes up. "I'm just saying," Sam bit out, "that if we keep this up _the way we have been,_ they're gonna beat us."

Dean watched him, silent.

"We need a new plan," Sam said, wrapping his long fingers around Dean's upper arm and pulling him away from the wall.

"Like what?"

Sam shook his head. "I don't know… but I'll think of something."

Dean winced as the movements of his legs shot a hot throb of pain through his back. He let Sam keep his hand on his arm, looking pointedly away as they walked past Andre's body and to the wide door of the warehouse.

"You just keep thinking, Sam," Dean muttered. "That's what you're good at."

"Yeah?" Sam cast a look over at him. "And what special skills do you bring to this partnership?"

Dean leaned against the doorframe as Sam dug a cell phone out of his pocket, the display screen casting a blue hue across his face in the murky night.

"Besides my devastating good looks you mean?"

Sam lifted an eyebrow, a smirk twisting the corner of his mouth. "Yeah. Besides that."

"I thought it would be obvious, Sam," Dean winced, pulling away slightly from the support of the frame and attempted to stand without swaying. "I'm the brawn, the muscle, the heavy…"

He listed to the side and Sam shot an arm out to grab his sleeve and pull him back against the wall.

"How's that working out for you?" Sam finished dialing, and pressed the phone to his ear, keeping one hand on Dean's arm as support.

"Think we need a new plan," Dean muttered, closing his eyes and listening to Sam report finding a body in the abandoned warehouse over on Utica Avenue. He opened one eye, peering at Sam when he heard him pause.

"Uhh… Phil Rudd," Sam said, then, "yeah, thanks, okay."

He snapped the phone shut and looked over at Dean.

"Dude, you been hanging around me too long," Dean's grin was crooked. "Why didn't you just hang up like usual?"

Sam shrugged. "Dunno. Not like it matters, though." He wiped his prints from the phone, then gripping it with his coat sleeve, tossed it back through the opened warehouse door.

Dean nodded. They'd been forced to do more than change the plates on the Impala to stay under the radar since Hendrickson found them in Arkansas. 'Disposable' cell phones had actually been Sam's idea.

"Hope the dispatcher isn't an AC/DC fan," Dean mumbled as Sam pulled him away from the wall. He dropped wearily into the passenger seat of the car, tipping his head back against the seat as he waited for Sam to get in behind the wheel.

When he felt the reassuring rumble of the Impala's engine, Dean rolled his head on the seat to look at his brother. Sam stared back at the warehouse, a dark look scuttling across his smooth features.

"What?" Dean asked.

"Nothing," Sam replied.

Dean pulled his head up from the seat. "It's gonna be okay, Sam."

Sam looked over at him and Dean felt an odd chill roll down his neck at the bleak expression in Sam's eyes. "Maybe it's time we stop telling ourselves that lie."

Sam shifted into reverse, and Dean let his head drop back on the seat with the motion of the car. He knew Sam was churning underneath his quiet exterior. He could feel the helpless frustration rolling off of his brother—and he knew he was the major cause. _I don't care what it takes… I'm gonna get you out of this._

Dean blinked, remembering Sam's voice, the determined look in Sam's eyes. _Maybe it's time I saved your ass for a change._

"Dean?"

"Hmm?"

"What day is today?"

Dean pulled his eyebrows together. "Uh, Sunday, I think." He tipped his head until he was resting against the closed glass of the window. "Why?"

"I just couldn't remember," Sam said softly. "You ever lose track?"

"Sometimes," Dean mumbled, feeling the heavy pull of post-battle exhaustion. "I don't always think about it… Not like time matters to demons…"

Sam shifted in his seat, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. "Matters to some," he said, looking over at his brother… feeling the year they had left together tick away. "Don't go to sleep, Dean."

"Hmm?"

"Seriously, man," Sam reached over and shoved gently at Dean's shoulder. "Roll the window down or something. You probably have a concussion."

"Tired, Sam."

"Yeah, well, I don't care. Open your eyes."

Dean sighed, "Alright, alright." He shifted stiffly in the seat, forcing himself to sit up, blinking into the night. "You're so bossy."

Sam ignored him, peering at a passing street sign. "Where the hell is the turn-off…"

"By that lake… Leggy Lake? Liquid Lake?" Dean said.

Sam saw a brown sign with a figure of a boat ramp pointing toward **Long Lake.**

"Long Lake," Dean pointed to the sign triumphantly. He reached up and tapped gingerly on his temple. "Like a steel trap."

Sam rolled his eyes, pulling to a stop in front of the motel, the blue-neon 'vacancy' sign flickering indecisively in the dark. Sam stepped out, walking around to the trunk, and dropped the book of Latin rites under the false-bottom floor of the car. When he slammed the trunk closed, he saw Dean pulling himself slowly to his feet using the door of the car as support.

He waited, watching as Dean shut the door, squaring his shoulders as if walking to the motel room was going to be as difficult as fighting a werewolf without the aid of silver bullets. Thinking back to the gut-wrenching visual of Dean's body smashing through the dividing wall, Sam knew that comparison probably wasn't too far off the mark.

He took a hesitant step forward, intending to grab Dean's arm, offer him support, when his brother moved away, his walk unsteady, slightly skewed, but in the general direction of the motel door. Not asking for help, not expecting help. Carrying his load and the weight of the load he'd taken upon himself twenty-three years ago without complaint.

_Goddammit, Dean… one day you're gonna have to let me save you…_

Sam stepped past him, up to the motel room door, unlocked it and entered, tossing the key on the nearby table and heading back to the bathroom. By the time he returned to the room with what he needed to help Dean patch up his Andre-inflicted wounds, Dean had made it into the room, shut the door, and was working himself out of his leather jacket with the creaky movements of an eighty-year-old.

"Want some help with that?"

"I got it," Dean groaned, dropping the jacket on the floor and sitting heavily on the bed.

He slumped forward, resting his forearms on his knees. _God,_ he hurt. He hurt in places he'd forgotten he had muscles. He hurt worse than when the blast from Sam's shotgun sent him through a wall over a year ago. _It's not the years… it's the mileage._

"You ready?" Sam voice trickled down from above him, stealing into his muted consciousness.

"No," Dean groaned, keeping his head down. Blood had dried on his cheek, chin, and forehead, making his skin itch, but he didn't have the strength to reach up and scratch it.

"C'mon, Dean," Sam sighed. "Don't be a baby. Let me clean you up so you can get some sleep."

"Thought I wasn't allowed," Dean groused, looking up at Sam through squinted eyes. Sam was staring back at him with a strange expression. Bored? Tired? Irritated? Empty? He could usually read Sam. Not tonight.

"I'll wake you up in a few hours," Sam said, motioning at Dean's shirt with his fingers. "Take it off."

Dean straightened up, lifting an eyebrow. "That's just so wrong coming from you," he teased.

Sam rolled his eyes. Dean crossed his arms over his chest, grasped the edges of his T-shirt, and uncurled his arms as he pulled the soft cotton material over his head with a barely-suppressed groan. He dropped the shirt on top of his jacket, resting one bent arm on his knee, his other hand gripping the edge of the bed. He waited for Sam's predictable reaction at seeing his bruised back.

It never came. Sam silently cleaned out the cut on the back of his head and the ones on his cheek and forehead with antiseptic. He started to apply butterfly bandages to the cut on Dean's forehead, and Dean pulled his head back.

"I got this," he said.

"Dean, you can't even stand up," Sam argued.

"Since when do I need to stand up to put on bandages?"

"Since you have to look in the mirror," Sam said, reaching for a suture kit.

Dean put his hand out. "Whoa, wait…"

"Dude, you've got a crevasse back here," Sam said. "Needs stitches. And I know you can't sew up your own head, so _can_ it."

"Fine."

Sam was careful, gentle even, but silent. It wasn't as if Dean wanted him to worry… but a word or two of concern would be more… _Sam. _

_Maybe losing Andre got to him more than I thought… maybe he's hurt worse than he's letting on..._ Dean halted his line of thinking just shy of the yellow-eyed demon's taunts that Sam hadn't come back whole. Hadn't come back _Sam._ Had been tainted.

Dean winced as a stitch shot a sharp pain through his scalp. Sam hissed out a heartfelt "Sorry," and Dean almost smiled. _That's my boy…_

Sam finished the stitches, and Dean felt his fingers lightly probing his back, checking for broken ribs.

"You're gonna be sore—"

"Gonna?!"

"But you're not broken, and I think your jacket protected you from any major cuts…" Sam continued. "I can get you some ice for the bruising."

"Nah," Dean shook his head when Sam stood up. "I'll just take a bunch of aspirin. Be fine in the morning."

Sam handed him some pills and a glass of water, then crossed the room, shoving his hands into his hair, pushing it away from his forehead and giving him a boyish look that wasn't reflected in his troubled eyes.

"Spill it, Sam," Dean said tiredly. "You're gonna bust a seam or something."

Sam dropped his hands and stared at him. How could he tell Dean what he didn't know himself? How could he articulate feelings that surfaced just long enough to crash against each other in a chaotic mess, then split apart and drop again? How could he tell him that he was angry and afraid, proud and pissed, determined and wary all at the same time?

"It's nothing," Sam finally said, his eyes not leaving his brother's face.

"Sam," Dean said. "It's me."

_That's the problem…_

"These people, Dean," Sam said, clenching his jaw, forcing the words out through his teeth. "These people are dead because of me."

Dean pulled his eyebrows together, puckering the cut that Sam had neglected to bandage. "How do you figure?"

"Jake got the Colt from me… opened the gate because I couldn't stop him…"

Dean pushed himself to his feet and Sam watched his hands curl into fists tight enough to turn his knuckles white.

"That's bullshit, Sam," Dean said darkly.

He straightened, despite the obvious discomfort, and Sam couldn't help but notice that the bruising from his back snaked around over his shoulder and across his ribs on his left side.

"Is it?" Sam said, unconsciously facing off with his brother. "The demon told me, Dean… he told me only one of us was going to walk out of that town. It should have been _me_, not Jake."

"Dammmit, Sam," Dean growled. "You _died_ trying to stop him." His voice broke and he felt a tremor shimmer through his chest.

Sam pulled his lips in tight across his teeth. "Doesn't matter… it didn't work."

Dean rubbed a hand over his face, closing his eyes. "Sam…" he started, feeling the world begin to shift under him. He opened his eyes, steadying himself with the sight of his brother. "You were the one that told me it was worth it… that what we did was worth the sacrifices we make…"

Sam watched him, waiting.

"You still think that?"

Sam blinked. "Yeah… I guess." He rested a hand on his hip. "We can't let those demons stay free…"

"Well, then stop all this worrying about _what if…_" Dean tipped his head forward slightly, his eyes steady on Sam's. "What if you'd stopped Jake? What if he'd never..." Dean swallowed, "stabbed you? What if I hadn't brought you back? It is what it is and we deal with it."

Sam shook his head. "We just deal with it, huh?"

"Yeah, Sam."

"Think you'd be saying that if I was the one who made the deal?"

Dean went cold. He felt his balance shift abruptly, the edges around Sam blurring and fading.

Sam watched the blood drain from Dean's face. He allowed himself a small, silent victory cheer that his words had struck a cord with his stubborn brother before stepping forward, catching Dean's arms as his knees buckled. He turned Dean so that he was again sitting down on the bed.

"Sonuvabitch," Dean muttered, rubbing at his head with a shaking hand.

"Lay back," Sam commanded, his voice soft.

"I just need a minute—"

"You're beat, Dean," Sam shook his head. "Just relax, okay? I'm not going anywhere."

He'd said it without thinking, but when Dean brought his head up, his green eyes snapping at him with focus, Sam knew he'd needed to say that. He needed to reassure his brother that he was going to stick around. He was going to fight with him. He was going to save him.

"I'm not going anywhere," Sam again.

Dean blinked once, then reached over to pull down the comforter. He shifted to his elbow and then his back, gritting his teeth as the bruises protested. Carefully, he rolled over onto his stomach, stuffing his hands under his pillow.

"Sam?" he muttered into the soft cotton of the pillowcase.

"It's right here," Sam replied, sliding his Bowie knife under the pillow until Dean could wrap his fingers around the hilt.

"Thanks," Dean breathed, and Sam watched as the muscles in his back slowly eased, the tense concentration Dean always held his body in, no matter the situation, faded and sleep claimed him.

Watching him another moment, Sam knew he should climb in the adjoining bed. He knew he should be exhausted. He knew he needed rest—they had a long road ahead of them and over a hundred demons to slay. But he couldn't stop the spinning of his thoughts, or quiet the uneven, frantic beat of his heart as he watched his brother sleep.

He grabbed the key and turned to the door, pausing a fraction of a second to consider leaving Dean a note. With a slight shake of his head, he told himself he'd be back to wake Dean up in a couple of hours anyway; a note wasn't necessary. He just wanted air. And quiet. And with the lake nearby, he knew where to get both.

The click of the door's closing latch echoed in the tangled, confused images of Dean's dreams. Faces and monsters burned and faded in a disjointed melee spawned from the life of one who walks the line between what others perceive and reality. Dean rubbed his face into the pillow, willing the images away, willing blackness to once again take hold.

He rolled to his side, unaware, focused only on the dream. He saw Sam stumble toward him, right arm hanging low, clutched in his left, a bruise across his jaw that Dean was instantly ready to kick somebody's ass for giving him. He saw the crooked, little-boy smile of relief, saw Sam mouth his name, _Dean…_

He turned to his back, oblivious of the pressure he was putting on his bruises, face pulled into a frown. He felt the mud from the dirt road of Cold Oak seep through his jeans as he knelt in front of Sam, feeling his brother's limp weight in his arms, against his chest. Sam was heavier than he should be… heavier than Dean remembered. He felt Sam's head drop limply against his shoulder as he gripped Sam's coat, shoulders, back, hair… as he screamed out his brother's name in denial.

Dean twisted his head to the side, banishing the image, banishing the feel of Sam's breath stuttering out, ceasing. He saw Bobby running back, shotgun gripped in his hand, horror etched on his face. He heard Bobby's whisper of _Oh God… no, God no! _

He rolled to his side again, reaching out for balance, for something to anchor him in the here and now, not let him slip back into the nightmarish memory of losing Sam. His arms wrapped weakly around the spare pillow as he tightened his grip on Sam. He heard Bobby say his name _Dean… Dean come on, kid… let's get inside…_

He saw Bobby reach for Sam and shook his head. _No… stay back, stay away, he's gonna be fine… he's okay, he's okay…_ He hooked his hands under Sam's limp arms. _You gotta help me out here, Sam, c'mon… c'mon..._ He wouldn't believe Bobby's eyes. He wouldn't. _He's not gonna be okay, Dean… let me help you… _He shook his head, once, refusing the truth, denying reality. Sam was the only one who could help him now.

He shifted Sam's bulk, his taller build, heavier frame, over his shoulder and with a guttural cry, pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the near-impossibility of carrying his brother. He had carried Sam before… he had carried him out of fires, had carried him away from battles, had carried him without even touching him... all of Sam's life. He was not about to let anyone else carry him in death…

"Sammy…" Dean turned in the bed, sweat beginning to trail down his face, stick his hair to his head, run into his closed eyes. He gripped the pillow tighter as Bobby hurried ahead of him and threw open the door of the nearest house, clearing the way as Dean staggered, stumbled, pulled himself through, tipping forward and rolling Sam's inert form from his shoulder to the bed.

The blood that coated Sam's jacket caused Dean's hands to slip… and he stared at his hand covered with his brother's blood for what felt like years. He looked down at Sam's pale, still face, arms resting on his chest, blood soaking into the faded, bare mattress beneath him. He looked at Sam and he saw his father… he saw the tears in his father's eyes as he told him to _watch out for Sammy…_ he saw his mother, smiling, holding, kissing, dying… he saw her look at Sam, _I'm sorry…_

He shifted suddenly, his bruises forgotten, his cuts forgotten, the only pain being that of his heart when it split, shattering, breaking as he hit his knees next to Sam's bed, Bobby watching in helpless sorrow from the doorway. He felt his lips pull back from his teeth, felt his head tip back, felt hot tears burn his face as they fell, felt his bloody fists crack as he growled out his rage, his pain, his defiance in a scream torn from his soul.

He jackknifed forward in the bed, the cry still on his lips, sweat running down his spine and gathering at his collar bones. He was panting, his bruised back pulling tightly at him. He darted his eyes quickly around the room. Empty.

"Sam?" he rasped, looking toward the dark, opened doorway of the bathroom.

_Where the hell..._ He rubbed a hand over his face, working to dispel the dream, and at the feel of the moisture there, pulled his hand away swiftly. No blood. Just sweat. Sam wasn't dead. He got him back. He'd gotten him back. _Then where the hell was he?_

Dean shoved the twisted sheets away from his jean-clad legs and pushed himself slowly to his feet, hissing as he straightened. He staggered over to the table. Laptop, Impala keys, Glock… no note. He started to rub his hand through his sweaty hair, remembering the stitched cut just in time. He bent slowly, grabbing his T-shirt and jacket from the floor.

"Son of a freakin' _bitch,_" he muttered as he raised his arms over his head, pulling his T-shirt on. _So gonna need more aspirin…_ He slid his arms into his jacket sleeves, and opened the motel room door.

He glanced to the left—pop machine, vending machine, ice machine. He glanced to the right—motel office, neon sign, Impala. Sighing he started to step back inside and figure out Plan B when he happened to look straight ahead, across the parking lot and down the pier that jutted out from the motel into Long Lake.

A familiar, lanky figure sat at the edge of the pier, the silver of the fading moonlight dancing off of the water and silhouetting him. _Thank God…_ Dean thought. He stepped out of the motel and closed the door behind him, walking in a slow, halting gait toward his brother.

www

Sam's need for air and quiet had only taken him as far as the end of one of Long Lake's finest rotting wood piers. It was at the water's edge that he'd discovered just how much the night's events had taken out of him. His feet were lead, and after he'd tripped on one of the loose and slightly raised planks, he'd decided that a walk wasn't the best idea. He sank down beside a crate and leaned into it, his eyes brushing over the moon-lit silver tips of each undulating wave on the lake before him.

_Just need a few minutes… just a little bit and I'll go back in and check on Dean… wake him up… maybe get some sleep…_

Sleep would have come so easily to him if it wasn't for the way his mind twisted in and out of dark memories. The phantoms of his mind, created from a past he'd sell his soul to have a crack at again. Sam laughed dryly at that thought. Dean had already sold his soul, and their father before him. Sam would look like a desperate imitator if he did the same. But what the hell was he supposed to do? What the hell was he supposed to be thinking at that moment? _Deal_ with it? No friggin' way. He wanted another shot. He wanted another chance to make things right...

As he leaned against the crate, Sam's eyes grew too weighted to keep open. He drifted to sleep against the side of the weathered surface, the sound of the waves gently rushing the shore creating a hypnotic and false sense of security. However, the moment he was locked down behind his closed lids, the images that constantly scratched at the back door of his mind were let in.

Sam drifted, seeing Andre, his eyes wide and his mouth full of blood. A death rattle in his chest reverberated through the empty warehouse, and through Sam's core. The sound was so thick and wet that Sam could swear he was drowning as well, right there beside him.

His dreams always focused on the eyes… Sam found it impossible to shut out the way Andre's eyes went cold. Or the way the eyes of Jack, Harry, or Erin, the three previous victims, had looked exactly the same… Their wide, lifeless windows to their recently discarded souls carried the unrelenting message that Sam had failed them.

_If I had just stopped Jake…_

Jake. He was never far from Sam's dreams. Jake's dark irises held so many things behind their glassy surface. Cold calculation and soulless action. Until Sam recalled the moment he pointed a gun right at Jake's face. Sam could always see his own eyes reflected in Jake's scared, pleading ones. Right before he squeezed the trigger. Pulled the trigger too damn late to stop anything.

Killing Jake then—after the gate was open, after Andy, Lilly, and even Ava were dead, after his brother had sacrificed his life—served to do nothing but momentarily quell the rage inside of him, leaving something disgustingly wrong in the satisfaction of feeling Jake's blood spatter against his cheeks. Because in that moment, Sam knew—just _knew_ that Jake cost him everything.

And then his eyes met Dean's…

_Tell me the truth. Dean, tell me the truth…How long you get?_

_One year... Don't get mad at me…Don't you do that…_

Mad? There wasn't even a word to describe what Sam felt the moment he saw the truth written in his brother's eyes. To do that… to give up his _sou_l like that… Did Dean think he was worthless?! Dean, who'd held everything together, who was the best damn hunter he knew, who defined their small and dwindling family, thought his life worth so little… Mad didn't quite blanket the emotion Sam was feeling. How could he describe the sick panic that coursed through his veins like ice water? Hurt? Betrayed? Angry? Scared? He wanted to collect his rain-check from Dean and grab hold of him all in the same moment. Don't get _mad_?

_You sacrifice everything for me… Don't you think I'd do the same for you?_

Sam woke with the echo of his words in his ears. The cold of the night air had sunk deep into his bones by that point and he debated going back to the room to check on Dean while moving his legs into a new position to slosh about the liquid in his veins. The reintroduction of blood to stiff limbs woke him a little more, and he convinced himself that he could stay outside a little longer.

The longer he stayed outside, the longer he didn't have to go to a place where he was reminded of what he'd done to Dean… to Andre and the others… He ignored the fact that asleep inside or against the crate… he wouldn't be free of his memories. He sat quietly with those ghosts, staring at the water, lulled to sleep once more by the waves, pulled under into the dream—the same damn dream—by the weariness of his mind.

After he woke for the third time, Sam stood and went to the very edge of the pier, sitting with his legs dangling heavily above the water. His logic was in hoping that he'd fear falling in and drowning enough to stay awake. Here at the edge, the night winds were stronger and Sam shoved his hands deep into the pocket of his hooded sweatshirt to contain the remaining warmth of his body. His tired eyes watched the midnight sky turn teal as the sun began to tease the horizon in a sliver of light.

"Sam."

Dean's voice had been quiet, but so damn close that Sam had jumped. He had to quickly grab the edge of the pier before toppling into the water.

"Did you sleep at all?" Dean asked. "What the hell were you doing out here?"

Dean watched his brother turn his face to him, and saw the dark bruising beneath his eyes. At first Dean had wanted to tear into him for taking off like that, but seeing the defeated exhaustion on Sam's face took the fight right out of Dean. He dropped his head, sighing as he sat beside his brother. It took him a while to get down, his back protesting the whole way.

"Always took you for more of a sunset guy," Dean poked.

Sam barely cracked a smile.

"It's not your fault…" Dean exhaled. He knew that was what was on Sam's mind. He carried it like freakin' Atlas carried the world on his back. "You tried, Sam. You did what you could to keep that yellow-eyed bastard from winning. You called for help…"

Sam looked up from the water below his dangling feet and looked at Dean surprised. "You got that?"

It was Dean's turn to take a sudden interest in the water.

"I…uh, had a vision, or whatever… Saw the town bell and a quick flash of you. Bobby seemed to know what the hell I meant by a bell with a tree and we were able to find you."

Sam smiled sadly. "It worked then."

"What did?"

"Andy," Sam said, picking off some old paint from a loose piece of wood at the edge of the pier. The memory of Andy's open torso flashed before Sam's eyes and he winced inadvertently. "He sent that to you. I never asked how you guys found me. I was just-" Sam threw the splintered wood into the lake and brushed at the paint that had come off in his hands. "Just glad to see you..."

Dean shook his head. "You thought it was over – you did all you could… and yeah, I'm pissed so many demons are out dancing in our backyard, but, Sam, Dad's out, too..."

Sam shoved his hands back into his pockets, twisting them and nodding reluctantly. "I'll give you that. But even with the yellow-eyed demon gone, having a couple hundred demons in the world is-is almost worse."

Dean knew he couldn't change Sam's mind right in that moment. This was something his brother was going to have to sort out on his own. He just wished Sam could see that even though they seemed more screwed than anything right now, there was some good that came from everything that had happened. Their father was free, and the demon that had started it all was dead.

Dean leaned back, tired and sore. He was hurting more than he cared to admit at that moment, and sitting over the water wasn't helping the swollen, stiff muscles in his back. He moved a hand to his neck and massaged out the kinks, gingerly avoiding the cut there.  
Without thinking, he sighed, "I just--just want to spend the time I have left with you, Sammy."

Sam looked at Dean quickly, a mixture of hurt and confusion flashing across his blue-green eyes. Dean instantly regretted what had just escaped his lips. It didn't matter if it was the truth. He shouldn't have said it. Shouldn't have reminded Sam… not now. He tried to explain himself.

"I know we have work to do, Sam. I just don't want to… to lose you in the process," Dean admitted. "Not again…"

Sam watched Dean's eyes reduced to slits as he lifted his head to the horizon, taking in the light of the new day. Sam knew Dean meant more than a physical loss, but he couldn't just pretend that everything was okay. He couldn't just request that the incessant screaming in his soul stop.

_I cost you everything…_

They continued to sit there in silence, nearly touching, watching the morning amber grow stronger. Sam felt his brother lean into him a little and noticed he was having trouble staying upright.

"You all right?" Sam asked.

Dean turned and nodded, forcing a smile. "Always." He rubbed at his shoulder, probing at the torn tissue there. "I just need a freakin' cup of coffee."

Sam huffed out a laugh and got to his feet. He pulled Dean up with him and dusted himself off. They walked back to the room in silence, side by side, each in-unison footfall on the pier leaving Sam feeling somewhat less empty.

www

The sun that had illuminated their slow walk back to the motel danced in dusty beams through the small motel window and across Sam's legs. Dean sat in the shadow of the room at the small table, standard in pretty much every motel he'd ever stayed in over the last twenty-three odd years… and that was a helluva lot of motels. With a helluva lot of tables.

After protesting that he wasn't tired and couldn't possibly sleep, Sam had stumbled to his bed and face-planted into the pillow, fully-clothed. Dean had waited two beats, then removed his brother's boots. He knew Sam wouldn't sleep long, but intended to help him get as many hours of rest as he could. He had grabbed a quick shower—the hot water simultaneously soothing and torturous depending on what part of his battered body it struck—and then had settled down in front of the weapons bag to clean their guns.

It was an automatic, habitual, calming task. Their weapons were their lives—if they weren't in top shape, Dean knew he and Sam wouldn't stand a chance. John had lived by that rule, had drummed it into Dean's head from a young age, and Dean had realized how vital that rule had been when a well-timed blast from a rock-salt-filled shotgun had once saved his father's life.

Sam shifted on the bed, muttering, and buried his face deeper into his pillow. Dean lifted his eyes to watch his brother sleep, but his hands never ceased in their motion. It was a checklist in his head, a process so natural he could do it blindfolded: break down barrel, empty chamber, clean, oil, reassemble, load.

Sam either slept on his back or buried so deep in his pillow that Dean sometimes worried he'd suffocate. Watching Sam now, though, Dean realized he almost preferred the burrow; when Sam slept on his back, he awoke staring at the ceiling and Dean knew he'd never truly understand how the images Sam could still see there haunted him.

Dean winced as he set down one of their shotguns and reached for Sam's Glock. The sleep he'd had wasn't restful, and the aspirin had worn off awhile ago. He glanced at the red numbers of the digital clock between their beds. He'd give Sam one more hour, and then he'd go get them food.

"Didn't you just do that yesterday?"

Sam's sudden, muffled voice surprised him. He hadn't moved, his head was still buried in his pillow, but Dean could tell by the set of his shoulders that Sam was now awake.

"Do what?"

"Clean the guns," Sam rolled his head on the pillow so that he was peering at Dean out of one squinted eye.

Dean looked over to the side. Had he? He hadn't been lying when he told Sam he lost track of time. He just moved. Days blended and time paused for meals and sleep and hunting, but he didn't always pay attention.

Until now. Now every hour that spilled into twenty-four counted. Every moment was purposeful, necessary, needed.

"Dean?"

"I'm thinking…"

Sam chuckled softly and pushed himself up, swinging his long legs over the edge of the bed. "Well, be careful. You might pull something."

"Very funny," Dean said, keeping his hands moving, his eyes on Sam. The mop of too-long hair was tousled and he had a pillow-crease running down the side of his face. "You hungry?"

Sam lifted a shoulder. "I could eat."

"How 'bout you shower, I'll get food, and then we can…"

"Work on a plan that doesn't end with you looking like hammered shit?"

Dean grinned. "Yeah."

"'K," Sam sat still for another moment. "Hey, Dean?"

Dean set the Glock down. "Yeah."

Sam paused a moment and Dean waited. "Nothing."

He pushed himself to his feet, and with an almost shy smile tossed his brother's way, retreated into the bathroom. Dean sat for a moment, staring after him. Sam hadn't needed to say anything—Dean heard all he needed to know in the way his brother said his name.

By the time he returned from the fast-food drive-thru with hotcakes, sausage, and large coffees, Sam was showered, dressed and sitting in front of his laptop.

"I got you twenty-five creams and thirty sugars," Dean said, handing Sam a coffee. "That about right?"

"Fifteen sugars," Sam said without missing a beat. "I'm trying to cut back."

Dean grinned. "What are you looking up?"

Sam watched as Dean rolled the sausage patty into one of the hotcakes and inhaled half of the concoction in one bite. Grimacing, he shook his head and poured syrup over his breakfast.

"Anything that could be weird, off… possibly demon-related," he shrugged. "The usual."

"Well," Dean said around a mouthful of hotcakes. "We found Andre 'cause of that news report." He reached for the remote and scooted himself and his breakfast back on the bed, leaning against the headboard. "Let's see what Tulsa in the Morning can tell us."

Cheek bulging with hotcakes, Dean flipped through the limited TV stations until he found the local news. Sam pushed the laptop away, tipping back on the rear legs of his chair, and watched along with Dean. They sat in comfortable silence, the only sound being the low murmur of the TV, and Sam reflected how that hadn't always been easy to do.

There had been times when he was younger—during high school mostly—when Dean's constant motion, constant noise, constant vigilance had driven him crazy. He'd sometimes find himself looking for anyplace to be that was other than where his brother was. The library of whatever town they'd paused in was usually a safe bet.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he caught Dean rubbing gingerly at the still-unbandaged cut on his forehead and wondered idly if his absence from the room last night had been what prevented Dean from sleeping as long as his battered body had so obviously needed. The first several months at Stanford—before he'd met Jess—Sam had found it almost impossible to sleep without the sound of Dean's breathing.

His brother's movements had become the background of his daily routine, his brother's voice, the soundtrack of his life. And it was only after the sudden lack of both that Sam realized how much he'd come to depend on Dean for more than just physical protection. Dean was his partner, his best friend. Sam had resisted that realization when Dean came for him again. He'd resisted their natural rhythm. He'd resisted being a brother.

And he didn't know why, really, until Dean had almost been taken from him. Sam rolled his neck. He'd been fighting so hard to chip out his own personality, his own identity, in a family that he thought was so different from him that he hadn't taken the time to realize how badly he needed his brother in his life. He'd needed Dean more than his dad, more than Jess.

The yellow-eyed demon had been wrong. Dean didn't need them more. The need was the same. They could sit in silence now because it was the same, and finally, they _both_ knew it. All he'd wanted when he'd been trapped in Cold Oak was Dean to be there with him, fighting alongside him. And he'd heard the echo of that need in his brother's voice when he'd called out his name a moment before Sam's world had shattered.

"Huh," Dean sat forward, remote in one hand, coffee in the other.

Sam blinked, shaking himself free of the morose path his thoughts had suddenly led him down.

"What?"

"Listen," Dean instructed, turning up the volume on the TV.

_"…small community of Mercy was hit by tragedy early this morning when Daniel Gibson, 43, husband and father of two was found dead in the backyard of his family home. His family had been away for the weekend and returned to find Gibson tied, naked, to a rock in the back yard. Gibson, a mayor-hopeful in the coming election, has been described by local residents as a true friend, active in his community and local church. Authorities are investigating several leads. Detective Tom Cullen, of the Mercy Policy Department…"_

"Huh," Sam echoed. "Tied to a rock?"

Dean nodded, watching as Detective Cullen continued to talk to the reporter. Sam turned to his laptop and typed in Mercy, OK. The town was small, only 8,000 residents. Daniel Gibson's death was already hitting nearly every link Sam found in the search engine.

"What are you thinking, Sam?"

Sam glanced over. Dean's gaze was on him, steady, the bruising on his cheek and forehead contrasting sharply with the green of his eyes.

"Well, there are a lot of cults that tie their victims to boulders or rock altars to, y'know, bleed them out."

Dean shrugged. "Doesn't necessarily mean demon."

Sam turned in his chair, resting one hand on his bent knee. "What? So if it's not demon-related, we don't hunt it anymore, that it?"

Dean muted the TV and tossed the remote down on the bed. "C'mon, Sam," he set the coffee cup on the nightstand between the beds. "If we run into a vampire I'm not gonna let it run off with its head still attached, I'm just saying… why invite trouble?"

Sam narrowed his eyes. "Dude, the guy was _naked_… tied to a rock. Trouble invited us."

Dean sighed, "Yeah, the naked part does sound hinky."

"So," Sam stood up. "Let's check it out."

"Easy there, Sparky," Dean stood as well, and Sam didn't miss the way he braced a leg against the side of the bed to steady himself. "We can't just barrel in there, guns blazing."

Sam pulled his head back. "Since when did you start shaking hands with caution?"

Dean simply looked at him. Sam swallowed at the swift flash of naked fear that shot through Dean's guarded eyes.

"For all we know," Dean said, clearing his throat. "This dude could have been banging his secretary, his wife found out and off'd him."

"She wasn't home, reporter said."

"Ah, and we know that both the TV _and_ women never lie," Dean lifted an eyebrow.

"Fine," Sam tossed his hands up in mock surrender. "You want me to do a background check on everyone in Mercy?"

"Nah," Dean grabbed his trash and crossed the room slowly. "Just Daniel Gibson. And maybe the town itself."

Sam sighed and sat back down in front of his laptop. As he worked, he kept Dean in his periphery. His brother would sooner cut off his tongue than admit to needing more down time between hunts. If Dean's movements stayed stiff, halting, unsteady, Sam would back off of this Mercy hunt. But something told him this was definitely their thing. This was something they needed to do…

Dean sat on the edge of his bed, his Bowie knife in one hand and a whet stone in the other. As Sam typed, he listened to the hushed _sh-sh-sh_ of the blade across the stone. It was a cadence that spoke of hunting, of wariness, of purpose, of Dean.

"Okay, here's something," he said. Dean didn't stop brandishing the knife against the coarse gray stone.

"Mercy was voted _Friendliest Town in Oklahoma_ last year," Sam looked over at Dean who shot him a look with his eyebrows in inverted V's. Sam looked back at the computer screen. "Let's see… crime rate's been at an all-time low… they've got four churches, two schools, one hospital—"

"I'm bored already," Dean muttered.

"This isn't the kind of place where wives tie cheating husbands to rocks, Dean," Sam said, closing the laptop.

"Whatever," Dean shook his head. "Every place is like that. Every place with people, anyway."

"Dean," Sam sighed. "There's more evil in the world now because of _us_."

The knife stopped.

Sam kept his eyes down. "We're supposed to… to _do something _about it, right?"

"We can't stop it all, Sammy," Dean said softly. "Not all evil is supernatural."

"There's something about this case, man," Sam said. "You feel it too, I know you do." He looked up at Dean. "What made you stop at that story on the news?"

Dean turned the corner of his mouth up in a false grin. "Thought the reporter was hot."

"You thought something sounded off," Sam insisted.

Dean rested his forearms on his thighs, letting his wrists relax, the knife and whet stone hanging limply between his knees. "Okay, but we go prepared. I mean… town that size, we won't be able to get the police records, but we could crash a crime scene easily enough."

He stood up and went over to the weapons bag. Shoving the knife in its sheath, he dropped it and the whet stone inside, then looked at Sam. "We gotta be careful. Even itty bitty suburbs get the wanted posters."

"_You're_ telling_ me _to be stealthy?" Sam gave him a disbelieving grin.

"Dude,_ stealth_ is my middle name."

Shaking his head, Sam stood and started gathering up their clothes. "You just keep telling yourself that, Dean."

"What?"

"If memory serves, it was _you who_ tripped the silent alarm back in Arkansas."

"That was so on purpose," Dean argued, pulling on his jacket with a grimace. "Besides," he forced out, teeth clenched against the obvious pain that was moving across his bruised back. "Who got us into the Blake Auction House to get that creepy-assed painting? Or into the antique store to smash Mary's mirror?"

Sam jerked open the motel door, holding it for his brother. "Okay, so you have your moments."

"You're damn right," Dean set his bag into the trunk of the Impala.

He held his hand out for the keys. Sam paused at the driver's side of the car. Dean stared at him, his intent to drive obvious. Sam flicked quick eyes over Dean's visible wounds, silently arguing. Dean tipped his chin down, his eyes staying on his brother, and wiggled his fingers. Sam sighed and tossed him the keys, which he caught easily and slid slowly behind the wheel.

"So, Mercy it is. Friendliest Goddamn Town in Oklahoma," Dean muttered, firing up the engine.

www

An hour later, the Impala rumbled with eye-catching slowness down Main Street in Mercy. The windows were down and Alice in Chains' _Rooster_ growled seductively from the speakers. Sam watched out of his window as three elderly ladies regarded their approach with disdain.

_"Got my pills 'gainst mosquito death. My buddy's breathin' his dyin' breath… oh god please won't you help me make it through…"_

Dean nodded and tipped his hand in a salute at a man mowing his lawn and was rewarded with a scowl. _Friendliest Town, my ass…_

"Uh, Dean?" Sam hedged, shifting in his seat. "'Member those moments I was talking about?"

"Uh-huh," Dean reached over for the radio dial.

"This isn't one of them," Sam looked at him; Dean resisted temptation and turned the volume down, rather than up.

"How far is this Gibson dude's place?"

"Four blocks down, two blocks over," Sam said, looking down at a paper in his lap. "According to mapquest."

"I'm gonna hide the car," Dean said, turning abruptly into a church parking lot.

They rolled up the windows, locked the car, and started down the road in step. Sam ran the details of Daniel Gibson's death—or at least the limited details they knew—over in his mind. Dean hummed _Rooster_ next to him. Sam worked to ignore his slightly halting steps and focused instead on the fact that Dean humming meant Dean thinking.

"Right up there," Sam said, tapping Dean lightly with his elbow. He nodded toward a well-landscaped, bungalow-style house. Yellow crime-scene tape could be seen from the equally well-manicured lawn in back.

They glanced to either side and crossed the street, slipping through the white picket fence quickly and making their way to the back of the house.

"Doesn't look like anyone's home," Dean whispered, glancing into the darkened windows as they passed.

"Just as well," Sam muttered.

He glanced at Dean, who nodded, stepping back over to the edge of the house, and kept his eyes moving steadily over the serene environment. Sam moved over to the large, rounded boulder still sitting in on the lush, green lawn next to an obvious indentation in the earth. The top of the rock reached the mid-point of his thigh, and he could tell just by looking that he wouldn't be able to wrap his arms completely around the circumference.

_There goes the wife-as-killer theory… _

He tilted his head, confused, at the indentation in the lawn. Crouching down, he pressed the tips of his fingers into the earth.

"Hey, Dean," he whispered.

"Yeah," Dean answered, not looking away from his watch of the road.

"I think… I think the rock was on… on _top_ of him," Sam said.

"Huh?" Dean turned, looking down at Sam. "Didn't they say tied _to_ a rock—"

"Not under one," Sam finished.

Dean frowned, coming closer to his brother's crouched form. "Well, that changes things." He glanced over his shoulder at the back door of the house. "Hey."

"Yeah?"

"You bring the…"

"Always," Sam stood, reaching into his pocket and pulled out the lock-pick kit, handing it to Dean.

His brother took the worn leather case and flipped it open fluidly to begin his craft. Just a few movements and Dean pushed the door open, slightly disappointed. Sam shook his head at Dean's thwarted expression, ducking down to look at the lock.

"Lever lock," Sam observed. "What? Too easy?"

Dean shot a look over his shoulder. "It was uh…already unlocked."

Sam blinked a few times, running his hand over the knob as a 'huh, well how 'bout that' look passed over his face.

"Well they did say Friendliest Town, Dean."

Dean audibly scoffed. "And that's why, kiddies, Mr. Optimism, 'The world is a fine place so I leave my doors unlocked,' is now making friends with the county medical examiner."

"Be careful what you touch," Sam cautioned as he followed Dean in through the kitchen.

The house was bathed in the smell of potpourri, and every picture frame, nick-nack, book, and votive holder was meticulously placed. The place was spotless. Dean stepped through the kitchen and into the living room, keeping a look out for any clues as well as listening for the return of the family. As he passed his umpteenth doily, Dean wrinkled his nose, wondering how anyone could live around this much fluff.

Sam was still looking through the kitchen and Dean poked his head around the corner, holding one of the lacey objects in his hands like it was something he'd picked up alongside the road.

"I solved it, dude," Dean announced. "The guy pinned _himself _under a rock."

Sam stopped looking in the pantry to give Dean a 'stop playing around' glance. "Doilies, Dean?"

"He couldn't take how it looks like Martha Stewart threw up all over his home… found himself a boulder…"

"Dean."

"Yeah?"

"Put it back and get serious."

Dean feigned a hurt look before returning the doily to its proper spot under some Precious Moments figurines, using his sleeve to wipe away his finger prints, and backed away slowly.

He found a door off of the living room and stepped inside. The smell of cigar and pipe smoke saturated the air, and Dean shoved the door closed behind him with his elbow before flicking on the lights. Richly colored wood book cases and a massive desk were what filled his vision at first. To his left was a fireplace and the walls were littered with mounted game.

"Sanctuary," Dean muttered.

He'd found Daniel Gibson's office. It looked like the only stretch of property that the man himself had actually owned. Dean's nostrils thanked the deceased as they drank in the robust smoke aroma, drowning out the potpourri.

Dean made his way to Daniel's desk and sat down in the chair, feeling the leather stretch and give behind his aching back. He knew Sam would have a few things to say about his nonchalant approach to this investigation. _Dean, do you want to get caught by the FBI? You like jail-time, Dean? 'Cause I sure as hell didn't_.

But knowing his time was limited, Dean could honestly say he didn't care… and this chair was a thing of beauty, and would be a shame to pass up. He was about to set his feet on the desk and indulge when his eyes fell across the open Holy Bible he would have set his feet right on.

He sighed and leaned forward to look at what the good Daniel Gibson was reading before he died. He found a letter with _humilitas_ written on the envelope, sticking out of the spine crease. He looked at that first, noting that there was no return address, or any address for that matter. The scrawl was simple, clean-cut.

The content wasn't so much disturbing as was the way in which the writer gave their message.

_Daniel,_

_It is a shame that your name should resemble that of a man who stood in a den of lions and was not eaten. Daniel was a man who did not fear what man could do to his name or life, or what the jaws of a lion could do to his flesh. You, Daniel Gibson, fear what man will make of your beloved public name. Your romance with narcotics is laughable, dear Daniel, because you would rather indulge in a substance that will tear you apart from the inside out, than face your demons and suffer the rumors that seeking help will bring about. Shame. Shameful. Your pride, Daniel, will be the death of you. _

Dean set down the letter, shaking his head to clear the creepy feeling that had set in. This wasn't a letter of concern from someone who cared. It was clearly mocking Daniel, but in a sickeningly gentle manner. So much so, that Dean felt like he'd spent a few minutes on the opposite side of a glass cell housing Hannibal Lecter.

He leaned over to see that Proverbs 6:16 – 19 had been underlined in the Bible several times. "These six things doth the Lord hate: yea, seven are an abomination unto him…" Dean read out loud. "Doesn't get more straight to the point than that," he mumbled.

"Find anything?" Sam's voice came out of nowhere and Dean jumped.

"Knock or something!" Dean said, running a hand down his face while his heart slowed down a little. Sam was leaning on the desk in front of him. "Christ, Sammy. I didn't even hear you come in."

Sam gave him an apologetic look. "Must have been some good reading…"

"Not really," Dean said, folding the letter back into the Bible and closing it. He shoved the small book and letter into his jacket and stood up, noting the horrified look on Sam's face.

"You're stealing a Bible?" Sam asked.

"Well, not like I don't already have a penthouse all lined up down in Hell," Dean smirked.

Sam wasn't amused, the lines of his lips drawing tightly.

"Lighten up, dude," Dean exhaled as he brushed past Sam and made his way for the door.

"Like it's that easy…" Sam breathed out of earshot, before he turned to follow Dean.

Dean started to head upstairs, but Sam stopped him.

"Already been up there. Nothing. This place is clean, Dean. No sign of forced entry. No ectoplasm, sulfur, nothing, man."

Dean stared at Sam in puzzlement, before shrugging and heading for the kitchen again. "Guess we just wasted our time in Mr. Roger's neighborhood then."

"Dean, doesn't that bother you at all?" Sam asked, on his brother's heels as they exited into the back yard.

"Yeah, it bothers me, Sam," Dean said, irritated. "Look, I found a letter stating that Daniel had a drug problem. Maybe he and some friends went a little too far on an acid trip. Maybe Jim Morrison and Elvis were there and told him to go pin himself under a boulder."

Sam rolled his eyes and went to the edge of the deep impression in the ground. He kneeled at the edge and poked around in the dirt aimlessly with his fingers, looking up at Dean after a few minutes of deep thought.

"It just _feels_ like our thing, Dean…" he said, his eyes searching Dean's for the same familiarity of the scent of a hunt. His brother looked bored, but recognition was there. Dean felt it too, even if he wasn't about to admit it.

Sam's fingertips brushed over something cool and metallic in the dirt and he tensed up, eyes diving into the depression. He grabbed a small object on a chain and pulled it from the dirt, dangling it before his eyes, taking it in, before standing and setting the dirty chain into his palm.

He tapped away at the dirt and could see that it was a Catholic pendant. He wasn't positive, but it appeared that the saint on the front engraving was Saint Patrick—a man who'd written a prayer of deliverance from demons. Sam had seen his image before in texts they'd used in exorcisms.

Sam felt Dean hovering, and turned his hand so Dean could see the ornately shaped pendant. He then flipped over the small piece of jewelry and saw the word _liberalitas_ inscribed on the back. The indentations were caked with mud, making the word stand out more against the gold plating.

"Liberalitas…"Sam said. "Latin for liberality…"

He looked up at Dean again, and his brother returned his glance with equal confusion flashing across his green eyes. Dean pursed his lips in thought for a moment, then pulled out the Bible and letter, sticking his thumb in the Bible to hold the page and handed the letter to Sam.

"Humilitas," Sam read. "Humility? Generosity and humility…"

Dean reached down and took the letter back from Sam, sticking it back in the Bible and returning the Bible to his jacket pocket. Sam looked back at the boulder.

"He was naked, tied to the boulder, and the rock was rolled on top of him. Crushing him…" Sam said softly, working through the maze that suddenly sprang fully-formed in his mind.

Dean silently watched his brother think, Sam's blue-green eyes staring holes into the indentation of the earth. Eventually Dean shrugged up the corner of his mouth and shook his head.

"Beyond me, dude," Dean said, patting Sam on the shoulder. He started back toward the church lot where he'd parked the Impala. "I have a feeling this will make more sense over a beer."

"Yeah..." Sam said absently.

The words, the evidence, the whole situation had an air of familiarity about it. Sam knew it would twist in his brain until he figured it out. He pocketed the pendant, pushing himself to his feet.

"Wait up," he called, following Dean. "Where you gonna find a beer in Mercy?"

"Always a bar somewhere, Sam," Dean tossed over his shoulder. "People need a place to hide," he said softly.

Sam caught up to Dean in four quick, long-legged strides. They crossed the street, heading back down the sidewalk, the afternoon sun angling directly in Sam's eyes. He squinted, glancing surreptitiously at a couple stepping out of a house, the man resting his hand on the small of the woman's back. The man smiled, the woman didn't. He glanced around quickly, watching plastic smiles cross empty faces as people waved from their open car windows.

Following Dean into the church parking lot and up to the Impala, Sam ran his finger over the shape of the pendant in his pocket. "Something tells me people 'round here hide in the open…"


	2. Tuesday: Greed

**Disclaimer/Spoilers/Authors: **See Chapter 1.

a/n:Thanks so much for all of your feedback! We've wanted to write this story together since February, so we're excited that it's starting to come together. The story is building through a mystery, and if we did it right, you'll see a pretty big punch in the action as the week rolls on for the boys.

Thanks to Kelly for checking our blind spots.

www

"_Greed has taken the whole universe, and nobody is worried about their soul." _

_- Little Richard_

_I have spoken with eternal angels  
I have held the hands of a devil  
It was warm in the night  
I was cold as a stone  
But I still haven't found what I'm looking for…_

"_I still haven't found what I'm looking for" – U2_

Tuesday: Greed  
  
He'd slept late. The last time that had happened, he'd had help from the pain pills for his broken hand. Grinding the base of his palm into his eyes to force the sleep away, Sam sat up, looking around the small motel room they'd secured in Mercy.

_No nightmares… _

It took until he was sitting in the bed, sheets pooling around his waist and covering the shorts he'd slept in for him to realize that not only had he slept late, but it had been a dreamless sleep. He couldn't _remember_ the last time that had happened.

He heard a barely-muffled curse and looked over to the adjoining bed. Dean was still asleep, twisted slightly on his side, facing away from Sam. He had one arm tucked beneath his pillow and the other rotated awkwardly and draped behind his back. Sam shook his head, wondering how Dean could possibly be comfortable enough to sleep in that position.

Tossing the covers back, he softly padded around the end of Dean's bed towards the bathroom. He paused at the bathroom door and glanced at Dean's face. Eyes rolling rapidly beneath closed lids, a line pulling his eyebrows together over the bridge of his nose, Dean looked… angry.

Sam frowned helplessly, then ducked inside the bathroom. He'd learned early on that when you lived in the pocket of your older brother, first dibs on the shower were a rare and treasured moment of peace. Dropping his clothes to the floor, Sam turned the shower on, glancing at his bruised face in the mirror. He hadn't heard Dean come in last night; he'd opted out of the company Dean drew simply by being _Dean_, choosing instead to drink his beer, then walk back to the motel alone. His body had made sure to remind him that he'd very recently been thrown across the room by a demon, drawing him to the comfort of cheap motel sheets.

They'd been fortunate enough to find the only motel in Mercy—or rather, on the outskirts of Mercy—located less than a half-mile from the only bar in town. His declaration that he was heading back hadn't been met with much resistance from Dean, who had been in the process of enjoying some sympathy in the form of a cute blonde in a sundress, cowboy hat, and boots.

Her pretty pout as she feasted her eyes on his brother's bruised face told Sam that all Dean had to do was smile at her and he would be busy for the next several hours. He'd spent two Dean-free hours pouring over the letter that had been stuck in Daniel Gibson's Bible, then searching Wikipedia-type sites on the Internet for anything remotely connected to the words _humilitas _and _liberalitas_.

He'd climbed into bed last night with no more knowledge than their translations and the fact that they were two of the Seven Virtues. Looking away from his reflection, Sam scrubbed his hands over his face with a frustrated sigh, then stepped into the shower.

"Think, Sam, think," he muttered. _Why is this hunt so important to me?_

Tipping his head back under the shower head, Sam relished in the feel of the water soaking through his hair, running down his back and over his shoulders. It was almost like an embrace. For a brief moment chills rose on his body in reaction to the temperature difference between the water and the cool air of the bathroom, but then the heat gently engulfed him and he relaxed back in pleasure.

He curled his shoulders forward, feeling the still-tender space on his spine stretch. He wondered if that would ever go away, or if it was his burden to bear as a result of his second chance, the gift his brother had given him at a price Sam knew Dean was willing—and ready—to pay.

Working the tension from his jaw, Sam turned to face the water, letting it strike his forehead, running like tears down his face and dripping from his chin. He could still remember Dean's face as he walked through the door of that abandoned cabin, his brother's arms wrapping so tightly around him. _I should have known then_… and maybe he did. Maybe he knew from the moment he woke from a silent, cold world devoid of pain with a great gasp for air that he had just been resurrected.

Maybe he knew then that his brother had been handed a death sentence.

Looking back, Dean's words when he'd woken in the hospital after their encounter with the yellow-eyed demon rang too true now. Dean had said he felt off... like something was wrong. It was how Sam had felt upon re-entering life…_wrong_. Just wrong. Deep down, his soul had known the price of the exchange.

"Focus," he growled at himself, irritated that his thoughts were so easily scattered these days.

Lack of focus had left them fighting a demon with a half-completed devil's trap. Lack of focus had him stuttering through an exorcism that he should know by heart while his brother was thrown through a wall. Lack of focus was the reason he couldn't figure out why Daniel Gibson's death was so significant.

Sam shut off the water, stepping from the shower and toweling off his body. He shook his head vigorously, droplets of water from his shaggy hair spraying the tiled wall and mirror in the bathroom. He pulled on clean boxers and the jeans he'd left hanging on the back of the bathroom door and stepped out into the cool of the motel room, wet droplets clinging to his chest and shoulders.

Dean hadn't moved. Sam could see the dream still captured him: his expression was set, worry and anger plain in the lines on his face. Sam sighed and headed over to the small table where he'd left the clues they'd gathered at the Gibson house the day before. As he sat in the chair next to the table, he glanced from the table back to Dean. No movement. He stared until he saw his brother's chest move, a habit left over from his youth.

_Breathe with Dean and the monsters will go away… breathe with Dean and you'll be safe… breathe with Dean… _

Sam blinked, looking down. Dean had had to feel him _stop_ breathing. Had felt him still. Go cold. As long as he lived, Sam knew he'd never truly comprehend what that horror would have been like for his brother. He never wanted to experience it for himself. Deal or no deal.

"Sam, no…"

Sam's eyes snapped up, pinned to Dean. He was still asleep, twisting further into a tangle of limbs and sheets, his frown deepening. Sam knew Dean's dreams were vicious; he'd seen the sweat-soaked hair and shirt on more than one morning. He didn't know how to help him; waking him only stopped the moment. The fear that took Dean down into the dark each night was real, present, happening. It was the same fear that drove Sam to fight, to search, to discover a means to end this.

Sinking back against the wooden slats of the chair, Sam shifted his eyes to the evidence, picking up the St. Patrick's pendant. He was fairly certain they were dealing with a demon—one that seemed to want to play with humanity in some way, rather than simply kill. Leaning forward, Sam rested his arms on his knees, tapping the pendant lightly against his forehead in thought.

It was supposed to have been over when the yellow-eyed demon was dead. It was what they'd fought for, fought about, fought with their whole lives. Retribution for Mom, for Jess… for Dad. Closing his eyes, Sam could still see Dean pinned, bleeding against the headstone, while Sam had been unable to pry his body from the tree where the demon held him. He could see his father's spirit wrestle with their nemesis, freeing Dean for the one moment his brother needed to grab the Colt, to finish the job. And he could see the steely resolve settle in Dean's hazel eyes as he pulled the trigger.

A rustle of sheets brought his head up. Dean twisted to his back, fighting through the thickness of sleep to greet the day with bleary eyes. Sam watched him blink slowly at the ceiling, waiting for full consciousness to return. When Dean lifted a hand to rub at his head, Sam spoke up.

"Feisty little wildcat, was she?"

"Dude," Dean groaned, "not so loud. And no."

Dean rolled to an elbow, pushing himself to a slumped sitting position, the twisted sheets roping down along his legs and draping on the floor. Lips pouted, puffy eyes blinking, hair scuffed and sticking up in tufts, Dean looked about fifteen when he first woke up. Sam grinned at him.

"Turn you down?"

Dean shook his head, the corner of his mouth pulling up into a slow grin. "Not exactly."

Sam's eyebrows shot up. "You turned her down?"

Dean blinked, tilting his head. "How long you been up, man?"

"Awhile," Sam said, tossing the pendant back on the table.

"Couldn't sleep?"

Sam just shrugged.

"Shoulda stayed last night, Sammy," Dean said, reaching his arms slowly above his head in a stretch. Groaning loudly as the bruised muscles in his back pulled, Dean dropped his arms and looked over at Sam. "You might have actually had a good time."

"No thanks," Sam shook his head. "Wasn't really in the mood for your sloppy seconds."

Dean pushed himself to his feet, turning carefully from side to side, working out some of the kinks from his sleep-stiffened muscles. He chuckled at Sam's comment.

"I learned awhile back that you can get your own dates, man," he said. "I just think that you need to relax once in awhile."

Sam tossed him an incredulous glance. "Relax? We have like… eleven months left, Dean."

Dean's face immediately darkened and he looked away, his eyes raking across the letter and the Bible.

"Eleven months," Sam repeated.

"I _know_, Sam," Dean snapped irritably.

"And I'm telling you," Sam picked up the Bible and waved it at Dean, "that we're dealing with another demon."

Dean rolled his neck and sighed. When he sat on the end of the bed, Sam saw the morning light from the window above the air conditioning unit filter in and hit the bruises wrapping from Dean's back to his front, turning the fading purple to an odd shade of blue. Bracing a hand on his bare knee, Dean raised his bruised face and met Sam's eyes squarely, like a judge waiting to be shown enough proof to convict or acquit.

"Don't give me that look," Sam grumbled.

Dean spread a hand, open, waiting. "I'm all ears, man."

"I can't… _prove_ it… but it's…" Sam sat forward, spinning the laptop around so that Dean could see the latest screen he pulled up. "This is all connected somehow."

Dean lifted an eyebrow, silent.

"Generosity, humility, that letter… that Bible verse…" Sam met Dean's patient stare. "Don't you see a connection?"

Dropping his chin slightly, Dean kept his eyes on Sam. "Do you?"

"Yeah, it's just that…" Sam paused, scrubbing his hands over his face.

He found it hard to believe that he'd once so cavalierly claimed that he'd go back to school when the demon was dead, that he once thought there would be an end to all of this. And now… now he couldn't imagine a point in his life where he didn't see a supernatural element in the world, from the acts of evil that humans visited upon each other to the very real war brought upon them by the opening of one door.

"Just that what, Sam?" Dean asked.

Sam dropped his hands, realizing that Dean was simply waiting for Sam's next thought. He wasn't testing him, wasn't belittling him. _Maybe Dean didn't need to find a link... maybe he just needed to be pointed in a direction. _

Sam knew that there had been a time when if he said it was evil, then as far as his brother was concerned, it was evil and Dean would turn himself inside out to fight it. Sam blinked. Dean had never thought the fight would be over… He remembered his brother's face in that motel room in Chicago. Dean would never stop fighting until the fight was done.

"I know the obvious connections are there," Sam said, his voice soft, "but there's something else... something bigger. I just can't… see it."

Dean tilted his head, his lips folding in thought and his eyes narrowing. It was clear to Sam that the jury was still out in Dean's mind.

"It'll come to you," he said, standing to retrieve his clothes from his duffel before heading to the bathroom.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, Dean stretched again, groaning with every sinew snap and quick pulse of pain. Each one was followed by an ironic wave of relief as the damaged muscle fibers tightened and relaxed, as his bones cracked audibly back into place.

Now that he was out from under the watchful gaze of his brother, he was able to relax his aching shoulders. With the buffer of the bathroom door in place, there was no need to pretend that his muscles weren't torn, or that his back wasn't percolated with painful discoloration.

Dean stripped quickly and with the agility of a ninety year-old, used the sink to balance as he dropped his boxers down around his ankles and stepped out of them.

"This sucks out loud," Dean muttered as he grudgingly bent over the tub, turning on the shower water, letting the bathroom fill with therapeutic warmth.

Waiting by the sink, he caught his image in the slightly warped mirror and winced

What he saw couldn't be blamed on the condition of the mirror or the poor lighting… or his activities the night before, for that matter. He was a mess of cuts, bruises, and scar tissue.

He smirked as his thoughts drifted to last night. His appearance hadn't stopped Stacy...or was it Sandra...Sara? Whoever the hell she was, his worse-for-wear mug hadn't been enough to scare her away. If anything it had led to instant Nightingale syndrome.

Dean leaned in to inspect the purplish splotch that had collected around his eye. It was accompanied by dual cuts along his cheek bone. They marked the side of his body that had been so congenially introduced to the warehouse wall by Andre.

Then there was the scar along his forehead. The thin, pale line was just above his exhausted green eyes. It stood out against his flesh as a reminder of the final fight against the yellow-eyed demon. Face-planting into a tombstone wasn't exactly a battle scar he'd brag about, but the scar was more a part of him than simply the remnant of injury. It wrapped up his eternal loss and triumphant victory into a single mark.

Dean let out a breath and took in the moisture-rich warmth around him. His image was already starting to fade and gray behind the thin film of water collecting on the mirror's surface. He swiped at the glass, bringing clarity back to the region around his eyes. The scar, the new cuts, the puffy bruising, all haloed his worn hazel irises.

They needed a break. Not this. Not jumping into a bizarre murder case out of Pleasantville. They needed more time between having their asses handed to them. They both needed more time to recover. That or they both needed to consider different diversion tactics—ones that didn't include becoming human punching bags—if they were going to return all of the Hell's Gate demons before...

Shaking off that thought, Dean slipped under the scalding hot torrents, letting the water pressure and heat beat the pain out of him. It replaced the cold ache with one more fierce, but in the end more forgiving. He let out an unconscious moan as pain quickly gave way to pleasure; every soothed-out chord of muscle worth the initial sting.

He hissed when in his eagerness to embrace a hot shower, the stream of water sent a quick flash of pain through his skull via the cut on his scalp. He forced his mind back toward the hunt, tilting his head back under the water and letting it wash in and out of the cuts and through his short hair, guarding what he could with his hand.

_The hunt._

This hunt bothered him. It had already made its way under his skin and all they had discovered was a man under a boulder and a few religious articles. No sulfur or any actual trace related to a demon, and yet Sam was sure that it was a demon. All signs in Dean's mind pointed to some sort of revenge-driven murder. Dean wondered if the writer of the letter he'd found was involved, but not even _that_ made sense. The writer seemed more set on letting Daniel destroy himself.

_Just keep your gutter soul. It's too tarnished, anyway._

The harsh whispers of the Crossroads Demon cut through his mind as he thought about Daniel's letter writer. It was one of the reasons that Dean had recoiled inwardly while reading the carefully penned words: _the tone_. It was a tone that had echoed hers. Condescending. Cold. Mockingly-sweet and laced with artificial concern…

If the tone was all Dean had to go on with this case, then he would agree with Sam that they were dealing with a demon. Only those things seemed to _know_ you, seemed to get underneath your skin.

Dean turned into the spray, raising his face to meet the water, eyes pressed shut. He soaked in the heat of each rivulet that traveled the carved grooves of his abdomen and chest. He couldn't remember the last time he'd taken this long in the shower. Any thoughts of wrapping it up were thwarted by the prospect of the sore stiffness setting into his muscles again. Sam would probably give him hell for taking his time.

_Give him hell…_

That phrase had taken on a whole new meaning now.

There was a part of Dean that wasn't ready to step outside of this room and meet with more of Sam's urgent reminders of the remaining eleven months. He didn't need an external countdown to his final moments. Dean was keenly aware of each moment that went by, every breath and every pulse working as an internal stopwatch. He knew he was a dead man walking and he didn't need Sam reporting the time he had left like a friggin' sports announcer.

But could he really blame Sam? What would he be doing in his little brother's shoes? Sam was coping, strategizing, compartmentalizing… doing what he did best as an analytical geek boy. This was how he was dealing. In Sam's shoes, Dean would be… hell, he'd _been_ in Sam's shoes.

_It fits, doesn't it? I'm alive, Dad's dead. The yellow-eyed demon was involved. What if he did? What if he struck a deal? My life for his soul?_

He knew how Sam felt. He'd known, to some extent, what he would do to Sam when the deal was struck, because he'd been there. He'd known what it was like to hear that someone burned in Hell because of you.

Regret wasn't present, however. It hadn't even crossed Dean's mind as far as Sam was concerned. Sam was back. He'd do it a million times over. There was no other choice. Dean had been able to do his job, to keep his brother safe. Keep him _alive_.

Subconsciously, he held some kind of hope that maybe, just maybe, there was a way out of this. Sam wouldn't have to live with his death, like he'd had to live with the knowledge that his father had gone to Hell for him. If they could just figure something out…

_Here's the thing. If you try and welch or weasel your way out, then the deal is off. Sam drops dead. He's back to rotting meat in no time._

Dean pressed the flat of his hand against the tile of the shower wall, bracing himself and massaging the water from his eyes as her voice twisted in his mind again.

_Eleven months…_

Not a lot of time to discover salvation.

The night Sam had learned about Dean's deal, he'd told Dean that he was going to save his ass for a change. But what if saving his ass meant Sam lost his life in the process? Dean wasn't going to risk it. Dean knew his brother would push until he burned-out trying to find a way to save him.

A part of Dean believed that Sam would succeed… but if that way sent Sam back to the grave… Dean was resolved that if at anytime he felt like their actions would be seen as a renege by the Crossroads Demon, then he'd back out. He _refused_ to endanger Sam's life for his.

When his debt came due, he'd give in to what he promised. He'd give her a hell of his own and go out fighting, but he would not risk Sam. Not when he'd given so much so that Sam could live. Sam would be able to live without him… He would have to. And as betrayed as Dean knew Sam had to feel, at least he'd be alive.  
_  
He did it for you._

_Exactly. How am I supposed to live with that? _

Dean winced at the memory of his own words.

"Sorry, Sam…" Dean muttered, water pooling over his lips as he turned his face back up into the stream. _I'm a hypocritical bastard. I know that, Sammy… I just couldn't…_

The water suddenly ran cold, the water droplets pelting his sore flesh like tiny razor blades.

"Son of a bitch," Dean swore softly as he launched himself at the shower knob, slamming it off. He took the rude awakening as his sign to get moving.

He shivered as he stepped from the shower, the quick movements destroying any healing properties the hot shower had provided. His curses continued as he toweled off before dressing. Dropping the towel quickly, Dean used what flexibility he had gained to pull up his boxers and jeans in one fluid motion.

After raking his fingers back and forth through his short strands, removing the excess water, he went to reach for the knob and paused. Sam would be out there ready to dig into this case. Sam would be there, brow furrowed more than a pug's backside, stewing over their sparse clues.

And Dean… Dean just wanted some breakfast.

He'd meant what he had let slip that night on the dock. All he wanted to do was spend time with Sam… spend the time that he had left with the only person that really mattered in his life. And if he didn't eat breakfast soon, his insides were going to cave in on themselves…

Dean exhaled, squaring his shoulders and bracing himself to face his task-oriented brother. He'd try to slip in a rally cry, get Sam excited about coffee and pancakes…

As he opened the door he was greeted by the sight of Sam standing in the middle of the room, remote propping up his lower lip as his eyes were locked to the TV. In that moment Dean knew any hopes of a hot meal went out the window. He mentally counted the change he knew he had on the bed stand. Seventy-five cents. Vending machine breakfast it was.

"There was another murder in Mercy," Sam said, clicking off the news report and looking at Dean expectantly. "A priest. News crews got there before the police."

Dean managed to a force a thin smile.

"So… Dead guy before breakfast then?"

www

The scene in front of the Our Lady of Peace Catholic Church was chaos. The church was gleaming white, almost painful to look at in the light of the morning sun. Three large, stain-glass windows depicting the Holy Trinity graced the front of the building flanked on either side by a small, silver cross.

Sam rested his bent elbow on the opened window of the Impala, shaking his head as Dean drove slowly past the dozens of milling people, squad cars, and TV station vans. Watching a group of elderly ladies comforting each other in front of a shiny silver Porsche, Sam opened his mouth to comment, looking over at Dean.

He stopped. Dean was rigid, staring resolutely ahead, not even trying to peer at the mournful crowd.

"Dude," Sam said, leaning forward slightly and turning so that his back was to the opened window. "Blink or something."

"Stupid," Dean muttered, a muscle in his jaw jumping with tension.

"What?"

"Shoulda pulled over earlier… don't know what I was thinking."

Sam jutted his head forward, dropping his chin slightly. "What the hell are you—"

"Cops, Sammy," Dean shot a glance over at him. "'Bout twenty of them. Pretty sure one got a look at the car. The plates."

"So?" Nothing had stopped Dean earlier from sitting in Daniel Gibson's office. Confused, Sam wondered if simply being in the same proximity as the cops made Dean more aware of their situation.

Dean took a sharp right one block down from the church, and shot Sam a look of irritation. "We do _not_ need to get tangled with the cops right now, man."

"Dean," Sam shook his head. "They are so busy with two murders in two days… no way they're worried about—"

"About two strangers who just happened to show up the same day of the first murder? In a car that, as much as it pains me to say, just doesn't fit in Smallville?"

Sam sighed, sitting back. He didn't understand how Dean's head worked at times. He'd blatantly explored the Gibson house, making himself at home in the man's office, but looked ready to rabbit the minute they had to drive past a group of police. Sam glanced out of the window, then back at his tense brother. He realized that he had a tendency to take for granted that no one took notice of them.

"You're right," Sam nodded. "I wasn't thinking."

Dean's eyebrows shot up. "Where's Dad's journal?"

Sam frowned. "Why?"

"'Cause I think that's the first time in the history of Winchester hunts that you've said that," Dean flicked a glance at Sam, the side of his mouth pulling up in a grin, his eyes crinkling. "I think we need to write it down."

"Shut up."

Dean found an empty lot near a playground and pulled into a spot under the shade of a tree. Shutting off the engine, he pressed a hand to his stomach, stifling the low rumble of hunger he was sure Sam had heard. He glanced at his watch. Ten a.m.

"We could have at least stopped at McDonald's on the way here," he grumbled.

Opening the door, Sam rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"What? I'm starvin'!"

"No. Seriously?" Sam shut the door and started around the car. "We should check you for tapeworm."

Coming around the back of the car, Dean stepped in beat with his brother as they followed the sidewalk back the way they came.

"What can I say? I like food!"

"And plenty of it."

"You bet your ass," Dean nodded. "And I plan on getting as much as I can of the things I like."

"Don't say stuff like that," Sam grumbled softly.

Dean shot him a look, surprised. "What's up with you, Mr. Eleven Months?"

Sam just shook his head. He didn't know how to articulate the confusion just being around Dean lately sometimes triggered in him. In one breath Dean was both uncharacteristically cautious and predictably reckless. Sam watched as Dean worked to keep them secret, keep them safe, but then he'd spend a few hours—or a night—with a cute girl in the local bar and gorge himself on beer and food.

Sam felt like he was spinning. Like _they_ were spinning. And he was losing his focal point. He was getting dizzy.

"Sam?"

Sam brought his head up to reply when he caught sight of the side of the church and the silver Porsche. Swinging his hand out across Dean's chest to stop him, he jerked his head to the right. Dean nodded, following Sam as they darted off around the building, quickly scaling the six-foot privacy fence that shielded the rear of the church from the street and dropped down in a low crouch on the other side.

"Think that window leads to the basement?" Sam jerked his chin toward a ground-level, slim, two-paned window.

Dean grinned. "One way to find out, I guess."

He moved over to the side of the building, Sam behind him, and pressed his back to the wall. They could hear the muted mesh of voices from the opposite side of the fence. Dean pulled two pairs of thin, black gloves out of his pockets and handed one to Sam.

"Where the hell did you get these?" Sam whispered.

"Picked them up last night," Dean whispered back, wriggling his fingers into the material. "The girl, uh… Sandy?"

"Shelly," Sam replied, shaking his head. She'd only said it four times while he'd been sitting there with them. Dean usually remembered stuff like that. Sam frowned, pulling the gloves on.

"That's it! Shelly," Dean nodded, reaching for the window, peering low to check the latch. "She worked in a sporting goods store."

He glanced quickly over at Sam. "No alarm."

Sam nodded. "So that's where you ended up," he said softly, his lips twisting up in a grin. "The Dean Winchester version of Disney World."

Chewing on his bottom lip, Dean pulled a slim blade from a boot sheath and worked it between the top and bottom of the window, slowly turning the inside latch.

"Yeah," he said, voice strained slightly with effort. "She was, uh, braggin' about the guns… found us a hunting blind…"

"I get the picture."

The latch gave and Dean shot Sam a grin. "Anyway," he said, sliding the knife back into his boot. "I saw these on the way out and she gave 'em to me."

He worked the window up slowly, then ducked his head in.

"You're right," he whispered, pulling his head out and glancing at Sam. "Basement."

They froze for a moment as one of the voices came closer. Sam wrinkled his nose as the smell of cigarette smoke wafted over the fence. He felt Dean stop breathing next to him. He slowly lifted his eyes to the top of the fence, watching as the thin line of smoke curled up, dancing a moment on the edge of the morning breeze, then dissipated, leaving only its scent behind as a reminder.

"Cullen's freakin' out," came a young sounding, nervous voice from the other side of the fence.

Sam slid his eyes over to Dean's face, watching as his brother studied the ground, listening.

"'Course he's freakin' out," replied a second, gruff voice. Sam heard the sharp intake of breath as the speaker took a drag on the cigarette. "He's Sheriff of the Friendliest Goddamn Town in Oklahoma," Sam watched Dean's mouth twist into a rueful grin at the echo of his words, "and now he's gotta deal with two murders in two days."

"Who'd want to kill a _priest_?" The younger voice shook slightly with shock.

"Hell, I can think of a few," grumbled Smokey.

"Dane! Evans! What the fuck do you think you're doin'?" Sam suppressed the immediate urge to jump at the sharp bark of the commanding voice.

"Just takin' a break, Boss," Smokey called back.

"This ain't no union! Get your asses back in there and get me a murder weapon! A motive! Something!"

"You got it, Boss," Smokey called back. Then softer, "Friggin' moron."

A still-smoking cigarette butt was flicked over the fence and landed on the top of Dean's boot. With a barely-perceptible movement, Dean shifted his foot to remove the offending piece of paper and tobacco, then waited until he was sure the two cops had moved away.

Sam watched as Dean began to breath again, amazed as always at his brother's ability to become completely still. It seemed as though in every other aspect of life—even in sleep—Dean was in constant motion. But Sam had noticed long ago that when danger threatened, or if Dean wasn't sure what to do, he just ceased to move. Everything stopped. Even his breath.

"Ladies first," Dean jerked his head toward the open window.

Sam narrowed his eyes, but moved toward the opening. He could see that it was going to be a tight fit, so he thrust his arms in, reaching out and down, finding the top of a bookcase beneath him. _Swell_… he thought. He worked his way down the bookcase, grunting softly with the effort of keeping his body from tumbling forward and down to the cement floor, feeling his legs cross the threshold of the windowsill.

Suddenly, he felt Dean's weight on the backs of his legs.

"Dude! What—"

"Comin' in, Sammy," Dean grunted, somehow managing to squeeze his muscular frame through the window _with_ Sam's legs. "We got company and they're looking to camp."

"Dean, I can't—"

"Just go faster—"

"Wait, man, it's—"

"Shit, Sam, I—"

And Sam was falling. Dean right behind him. With a brief yelp, Sam ducked his head, curling his arms over the back of his head and turning himself into a ball. He hit the cement floor with a slight _ooff_ of air, Dean on top of him. He heard Dean's stifled bark of pain as his brother's bruised back met his hipbone and then they lay both lay still, waiting to see if anyone had heard them.

Blinking up through the hazy beams of sunlight, he saw the dark-blue clad legs of a police officer pass by the opened basement window, then move away. Simultaneously, they released the breath they'd been holding. Sam looked down at Dean and couldn't help but mirror the grin he saw gracing his brother's face.

"Nice landing," Dean chuckled, softly. "I give it an eight at least."

"Me? You're the one trying to piggy-back down the front of a bookcase," Sam shoved at Dean's shoulder, working to dislodge him from his tangled legs. "Sorry," he whispered when he saw Dean wince slightly.

"It's nothing," Dean grunted, pushing himself to his feet and offering a hand to Sam.

Dean glanced up at the opened window, and started to climb back up the bookcase. Holding the top edge of the wooden shelving, he yanked the window down to a near-closed position to hopefully not attract unwanted attention.

Dropping carefully back to the ground, he looked around.

"Okay, we're here," he said, brushing at his dusty jeans. "Now what?"

"We need to find a way to get in and see the body," Sam said.

Dean pushed out his lips. "Riiight, sure," he nodded. "We'll just, y'know, _blend._"

Sam scowled. "I meant without being seen."

"Oh, crap, sorry, Sam, I left my invisibility cloak back at the motel," Dean patted his pockets. "You bring yours? We could share."

Sam rolled his eyes and started to roam the dimly-lit basement. Stacks of Bibles had been removed from shelves and placed on the floor to make way for what looked like blank VHS tapes. Large white candles, a baptismal, altar cloths, and a few communion chalices were set in different areas of the basement. Sam looked up, his eyes searching the walls for a door that would lead into the main area of the church.

"Yahtzee," Dean whispered from behind him. Sam turned.

Dean stood in front of a small door, practically hidden in the corner of the room behind another bookshelf. Sam crossed over to him and Dean carefully opened the door, wary of the creak of rusty hinges that might reveal their presence. The door led to a narrow stairway.

Without glancing back at Sam, Dean led the way and Sam saw him instinctively slide his hand to his waistband, fingers brushing the butt of the gun he kept there. They reached a landing and Dean thrust his hand back to stop Sam, carefully ducking his head around the corner. The landing and hallway were empty, and they saw that the stairway continued up.

"Dean," Sam whispered. "I think this must lead up to the choir loft."

"Yeah?" Dean glanced back at Sam, a slightly rebellious twinkle in his eye. He continued up the narrow stairs and Sam heard him chuckle.

"This little escape hatch could so work in my favor," he said. "Sneak away from choir practice… those little Catholic girl uniforms with the skirts and the knee-high socks… mmmm…"

"Dude, seriously," Sam shot back in a stage whisper. "We're in a _church_."

"So," Dean paused as they reached the top. "If God were listening we might actually be able to take a break once in awhile."

Sam blinked at the sudden hard edge that had slipped into Dean's voice. He was saved from commenting by the turn of his brother's head with his index finger against his lips.

Dean tilted his head to the closed door, then slowly turned the knob, easing the door open a crack. Pressing the side of his face against the opening, Dean shot his eye around the part of the outside area that he could see. Sam had been right: the pews that flanked the large pipe organ indeed indicated choir loft. Not seeing anyone around, Dean eased the door open further, slipping through with his back pressed against the wall.

He looked to see Sam doing the same, then crouched low and made his way to the edge of the balcony, Sam by his side. Fingers inching carefully over the edge of the solid wood railing, Dean raised himself up so that his eyes blinked down on the chaotic sea of people below him.

Over a dozen police officers swarmed the pews, the aisle, and the altar of the sanctuary. Dean felt his heart thud painfully in his chest at the sight of so many blue uniforms. He glanced quickly over his shoulder to make sure he hadn't missed anyone staking out the balcony area. His eyes swept the loft and he realized that the only way in or out was the door they had just come through. That was both a reassuring and frightening fact.

A sudden shout from below brought his attention back to the crowded aisle below him.

"Evans, what the _hell_ are you doing? I asked you to get him a robe or something!"

Dean recognized Detective Cullen from the flash on the news. He realized his was the voice that had called the two smokers back to duty earlier.

"R-right, sure thing, Boss."

"It's like working with children," Cullen muttered, flipping his black notebook closed and stepping back, revealing the body of the priest.

Dean blinked, then looked over at Sam, whispering, "There's a disturbing naked pattern emerging here."

Sam shushed him, leaning against the edge of the railing, peering closely at the body. Dean followed his eye line. The man was naked, sprawled face-down in the aisle, his arms and legs stretched out until his body made the shape of an X. His wrists and ankles were bound by thick rope to railroad spikes that had been driven into the stone floor of the sanctuary.

Evans returned with a black robe and handed it to Cullen.

"Cut him loose," Cullen said, signaling to another officer who bent and cut through the rope tying the priest's wrists.

Another man cut his ankles free, both leaving the rope still attached to his body. Cullen and Evans quickly slid plastic bags over the priest's hands and feet, preserving the evidence. Cullen straightened, then nodded. The two officers rotated the body over to his back; Cullen dropped the robe over the front of the priest, covering the body from ankle to shoulder.

"Ack," Evans suddenly exclaimed and six officers stopped what they were doing to look.

Dean narrowed his eyes, peering closer. As the priest's body shifted over, dirt poured from his mouth. Dean could now see that the man's face was covered with a gory paste of blood and dirt, gathered heavily at the man's eyes.

"Dean…" Sam's voice drifted out in a horrific shock of a whisper. "His eyes…"

Dean looked at Sam, then back down at the priest. He saw Evans cover his mouth with the back of his hand and move quickly away. Cullen smoothed his hand over his mouth and jaw, moving it to scratch at the back of his head.

The priest's eyes were missing.

"Who would _do_ something like this?" said one of the cops that had cut the ropes binding the priest. "I went to Father Simons for confession once a week, Boss. He… he saved my aunt's life."

Cullen shook his head, his gaze on the body. "He didn't save anybody," he growled. "But that don't mean he deserved this."

"This is… this is nuts, Boss," Evans returned, looking pale and shaky. "We're dealin' with some kind of freaky Zodiac-type serial killer here."

Cullen turned on Evans, blocking the body from Dean's view. "We don't know that," he barked, his index finger bore a hole in the young officer's chest. "We don't know _anything_. And if I hear of any serial-killer theory in the press, I'm gonna take heads, you get me?"

Evans nodded quickly.

"That goes for the rest of you, too!" Cullen raised his voice and the officers within earshot chorused with agreeable nods, salutes and 'gotcha, Boss' replies.

"Dean," Sam hissed, grabbing his sleeve. "We gotta get a closer… gotta look for—"

"Are you crazy?" Dean shot back in a hushed, hurried tone. "We're getting out of here. Now."

Sam's eyes were darting so quickly in thought he looked like he was going to sprain something. Dean frowned, grabbing the front of Sam's shirt and pulled him down in a low crouch away from the edge of the solid balcony railing.

"Sam!" He hissed.

"We'll have to come back, look around tonight."

"Look for what?!"

"Clues, Dean," Sam snapped. "Signs, more Latin. Something!"

"You heard that cop—"

"Dean," Sam slid beseeching eyes to his brother's. "Please."

Dean sighed. _Not fair, Sammy… _"Okay, fine," he acquiesced. "Tonight."

He turned from the balcony, keeping his fingers fisted in Sam's shirt and pulled him toward the small door. They headed down the back stairs silently. Only when they were once again in the basement did Dean dare to take a shaky breath. _I must be out of my mind…_

"Let me check to see if we're clear," he said as Sam started toward the bookcase. He pulled Sam back and away, then climbed up the wooden shelves peering out of the closed window. It looked clear, but then he saw the uniform-clad legs of an officer walking the perimeter.

At that moment, his stomach growled loud enough that Sam heard it. Dean glanced quickly at his brother over his shoulder and saw Sam scrunch his eyes up in a wince, his hand covering his mouth. Looking back out the window, Dean held his breath as the officer walked away once more around the back-end of the church.

He leveraged open the window, then with a soundless heave, worked his way through the opening, chanting _please stay away please stay away please stay away_ silently as he shimmied through the open window. Once out, he turned to reach back for Sam, pulling him through the opening behind him. He shoved the window closed and they took off at a jog across the back of the parking lot.

Dean heard one officer call to another too near for his comfort and he sped up until he was full-on running down the back alley toward the street they'd turned on earlier. Sam matched him stride for stride. They reached the Impala and pulled up, panting for air.

Dean pulled the black gloves off and stuffed them into his jacket pocket. He looked at Sam over the roof of the car, watching as Sam leaned there, pulling in air. Before his brother could say anything, Dean pointed a finger at him.

"Food. Now."

www

Sam watched with an expression bordering on awe and disgust as Dean shoved another fist-full of fries through a globule of cheese and chili. His eyes followed his brother's movements from the plate to his mouth, and right about there, Sam was sure he was going lose something as he watched with horrified fascination as Dean inhaled the concoction.

Their harried waitress, one Gwen of Mel's Diner, paused at their table only long enough to slide a plate of cherry pie and ice cream in close to Dean's elbow—making sure she also took the time to lock eyes with Dean, exchanging smiles before hurrying off to attend to the large lunch crowd.

Dean stopped inhaling his usual fare of a burger and fries to set his gaze on the pie before him.

"God, that's beautiful," Dean said.

Sam watched Dean's boyish grin increase, watched his demeanor kick up ten notches as the creases around his brother's eyes deepened. Dean was lit up over sugar doused fruit and butter flake crust. It was the little things that made Dean almost giddy… and Sam was slightly jealous.

Dean turned the pie around in front of him so Sam could see it.

"Sure you don't want any?" Dean asked.

"I'm sure."

Sam propped up an uneaten fry onto the fry tent he'd created on his plate. He then grabbed another one and dropped it listlessly from above to break the small structure. His burger was lying with just a few bites taken from around the edges. He just didn't have the appetite right now.

Dean shrugged and started in on his pie, groaning with delight after the first bite.

"Dude, you _gotta_ try some," Dean got out between mouthfuls.

Sam didn't understand him at first and shook his head. "Man, you're gonna choke."

Dean put down his fork and pushed the plate toward Sam in an act of genuine generosity. Sam shoved it back.

Dean chewed on the side of his cheek, attention away from the pie and now on the way his brother was picking at his food. He couldn't believe that anyone would turn down pie.

"Okay. I'll bite. What's eating you, Sam?" Dean asked, even though he had a pretty good idea.

Everything about this case was gnawing at Sam. That, and Dean knew if there had been any way they could have saved the priest earlier, Sam would beat himself up over that fact later. Dean fell naturally and unabashed into big-brother mode.

"If it's this case, I know we'll figure this out—well, you'll probably be the one that figures this out, but still… You can't let it take up so much space in your brain, Sammy. Just give it time. There was nothing we could have done for that guy today…"

Sam suddenly looked up at Dean, his eyes penetrating. "Is it the same dream every night?"

Dean closed his mouth with an audible click, taken aback by the sudden switch in topics. He'd thought for sure that Sam's mood was a result of the weirdness of the case, and he'd wanted to help him with his obvious issues with it. The last thing Dean had been expecting at that moment was for Sam to turn this around and focus on him.

Dean had known that he wouldn't be able to hide his dreams from Sam forever. Sam had already been doing his typical prodding and verbal questionnaire just this morning. His nightmares hadn't even been that bad last night. They could be much worse… _had been _much worse. But Dean got the impression that Sam thought the nightmares were a recent development. _It's better that way_, he thought.

Shrugging, he grabbed up another fry, intent on deflecting Sam's scrutiny. "I can't really remember," he lied. Truth was he could recall the images from his nightmares all day long. They continually darted unrepentantly out of the shadows of his mind.

Sam leaned into the table, stubbing one of his fingers onto the surface. "I think this is another one of the Hell Gate demons, Dean. What's going on around here; what's going on in your dreams… Maybe—maybe they know about your deal and they're trying to mess with you."

Dean was acutely aware that the demons knew about his deal. Andre's demon had made that crystal clear while he had Dean pinned against the warehouse wall. They knew. They knew and they were practically decorating the place in preparation.

"So what?" Dean shrugged again. "So they know. So they're messing with us. We just need to do what we've been doing. If demons _are_ behind this, then we exorcise their asses, send them back to Hell."

"Yeah, where they'll be waiting for you," Sam uttered softly, watching his brother drop his chin, his shoulders sagging. The words he'd said under his breath weren't meant to be audible, but Dean had still heard them.

Dean dropped his fry and pushed back his plate, no longer hungry. A silence fell heavy between them; shooting up a thick wall almost immediately after the words had left Sam's mouth. There was nothing left for Dean to focus on except his own thoughts and the Indie rock playing over the mesh and lull of voices that was swelling through the diner.  
_  
"…And I do believe it's true, that there are roads left in both of our shoes, but if the silence takes you, then I hope it takes me too…" _

Dean found the music as potential for pulling up the nose of the plane. He was just about to razz Sam about how this would definitely be a song on his little brother's play-list, but the opportunity passed with the ring of the bell hung over the entrance to the diner.

Sam and Dean cast sideways glances simultaneously in that direction, seeing two of the women they'd noticed earlier from the church crying beside the silver Porsche. The brothers exchanged knowing glances and waited as the women passed the table, their ears tuned into their conversation.

"Father Simons was such a good man… a man of God," the first one was saying.

The other shook her head as they spotted a booth in one of the corners. "Why anyone would want to do this to him… He's done so much for the community…"

Unable to make out any more of their conversation, Dean watched as his brother tilted an eyebrow, leaning in across the table.

"Dude, what the hell? A mayor and priest?" Sam whispered. He then pushed back into the seat, obviously frustrated with his inability to figure this out. He worked his jaw, staring out the window. "I'm drawing a blank on connections except the words we found at the first murder are virtues and 'virtuous' people in the community are being taken out."

Dean folded his hands, resting his forearms on the table and leaned toward his brother. "If the person that wrote that letter is right, then Daniel wasn't exactly Mr. Innocent, Sam."

Sam nodded thoughtfully, "Yeah… you're right…" He looked over at the ladies in the far booth. They were obviously distraught by the priest's death. He'd meant something to them. Sam remembered hearing the cop say something about Father Simons saving his aunt's life. _That's interesting_…

"You see anything that I'm not seeing?" Sam asked Dean. "Something that connects these guys?"

"You mean besides the_ full-moon _pattern?" Dean asked, his mouth turned up in a grin.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Real reverent, Dean."

"What?" Dean returned defensively. "I'm just saying that there is that hinky naked theme."

"Humiliating…" Sam mumbled. "What ever it is, it wants to humiliate them…"

Sam pulled the plate of cold fries and his half-eaten burger back toward him. He was suddenly eager to eat, eager to get moving.

"We just need to get back into that church," he managed between massive bites of burger.

Dean sat back and watched as his brother ate with new-found enthusiasm, unconsciously mimicking Sam's earlier behavior as he began to play with his fries. The ice cream next to his cherry pie had melted into a sad puddle around the remnants of his soggy dessert. Pie had lost its magic and Dean had lost his hunger. He signaled Gwen for the check.

www

Night had turned Mercy's quiet citizens back to their homes and families. The Our Lady of Peace Catholic Church's dark silhouette stood alone against a backdrop of lighted houses in suburbia. Its own windows were darkened and a stillness had settled into her property. It was a stark contrast to the activity from earlier. The only movement came from a single officer walking her perimeter, and the occasional piece of crime scene tape lifting in the wind.

They left the Impala two blocks over in one of the city parks. Backs pressed against the fence, they waited for the patrolman to pass by on his rounds before they made their way to one of the back entrances. As fun as using the basement window had been earlier, neither was up for another dive down the bookcases when they had the cover of night and the lack of the entire Mercy police force working in their favor.

Sam stood beside his brother, back pressed against the church's exterior, keeping a look out for anyone that might come their way. They'd watched the patrolman's patterns from a distance before moving in. They had a ten minute window before he passed the back door again. Twenty if the guy stopped for a smoke around front.

Dean worked swiftly, the lock pick kit strewn over one knee, two sets of back up picks in his mouth while he worked with the others. His brow was creased in complete concentration as he moved each piece of metal with precision. The only aid was what light he could get from the moon above.

The challenge Dean had been robbed of the day before at Daniel Gibson's house had been returned, as Sam realized the lock wasn't giving way as fast as it usually did. That didn't bother Dean much, however; Sam saw his enjoyment displayed in the upturned corner of his mouth. The two picks weren't working, and Dean switched them out for the ones in his mouth.

Dean laughed lightly to himself as if enjoying an inside joke. Sam wanted in on it.

"You've got five minutes," Sam whispered in reminder. "Mind telling me what's so funny?"

Dean tilted his head, re-adjusting his position by shifting the weight on his legs as he crouched. "It just figures..."

"What?" Sam asked.

"The guy that's been locked out by God has to pick the lock on the church," he replied. The tools clicked into place and Dean turned the knob slowly, easing inside.

Standing in the sanctuary, they waited for their eyes to adjust to the absence of light before progressing. The light from the surrounding homes provided some assistance through the stained glass, but neither one wanted to risk the officer outside seeing their flashlights as they made their way through the sanctuary. Sam had been adamant about getting into the office of Father Simons.

They crept through the evidence of the recent investigation. While Father Simons' body had been removed, his outline almost glowed, standing out in white chalk against the wood floor. The restraints that had held him down were missing, but some of the bloody mud that had fallen from his empty eye sockets was dried against the floor.

Sam cast a careful eye over the immediate area before they made their way to the pulpit at the front of the church. He'd noticed the door behind it when they had been perched in the choir loft earlier that day. Stepping through the opened door, he saw a hallway that led to a series of offices. Being internal to the building the rooms lacked windows, and Sam brought out his flashlight. He paused in the hallway, balancing it beneath his chin while he slipped on his black gloves. Dean already had his flashlight out and was moving the beam over the nameplates on the doors.

Father Simons' office was located at the end of the hall and the door was unlocked. Dean slipped inside followed closely by Sam, who shut the door as quietly as he could. Once inside, they exchanged glances and took off in practiced fashion, each taking one side of the room and beginning their search.

It looked like a typical office, between the filing cabinets, bookshelves, a rolling cart with a TV/VCR, and the desk, nothing shouted sinister or off. The walls were covered with pictures and framed pieces of scripture. Dean paused in front of one and took in what Father Simons had looked like with his eyes intact. He had one arm draped around a young lady who was smiling sweetly. The picture looked like it had been taken in the sanctuary and there was some writing along the bottom.

_Thanks for saving me – Kara_

He passed his flashlight over the next few photos, gathering the same message from each person who stood beside Father Simons. Every person was thanking him for saving them. _From what? From their lives of debauchery?_

Dean could remember hearing people saying similar things to Pastor Jim when he was younger. This seemed different somehow. The way it felt… all of these _thank you's_ sounded like they were the product of being saved from something more tangible. It was as if he'd physically saved their lives.

_What were you up to_, Dean wondered. Did he do some other job on the side?

Dean moved away from the wall and started into the filing cabinet, pulling out the top drawer and beginning to leaf through the file names. They were mostly filed by dates and Dean removed the most current one and started to read.

Sam had moved to the desk and was rifling through boxes of envelopes, pencils, and rubber bands. He shoved aside papers with no real meaning to him, and glossed over letters written to the priest. None of them were written in the style of the one left at Daniel Gibson's house.

Sam saw a thin, green, leather-bound book in the last drawer and he pulled it out. He leaned against the desk, holding his flashlight in his mouth, and started to turn through the pages. His eyes scanned over numbers and dollar signs, and he realized this was Father Simons' personal ledger.

He took the flashlight out of his mouth, balancing it and the ledger in his hands and looked up at his brother. "Dean, check this out, man. October 13th, 2006, has an entry for three thousand dollars. February 5th, 2007," he traced his finger over. "Two thousand five hundred."

Dean whistled as he continued to scan through the files. "I think we're in the wrong profession, Sammy."

Sam laughed a little, remembering their covers in Saginaw. "Right, like you and I could ever really pass for priests."

"Well, _you_ could," Dean said, picking up another file. "You've got that caring and sharing, hugs all around, face."

Sam turned a few more pages and shook his head. "There's an entry for five thousand dollars, Dean."

Dean stopped reading and returned the file to the drawer. He watched as Sam brought the book up closer to his face, like he wasn't sure he was reading something right.

"Pretty big for Sunday morning offering," Dean replied.

"Yeah, I'd say…" Sam let down the ledger, looking at his brother in disbelief. "Dean… It says this was for an exorcism."

Dean shot Sam an incredulous look. "He was charging for exorcisms?"

Sam nodded, his jaw going taut as he looked back over the numbers. Every entry for large sums of money were attached to an exorcism.

Disgusted, Dean slammed the file drawer shut and opened the next one down. Its contents were solely made up of VHS tapes. He ran his finger over the collection stopping at one that matched a theme Dean could see developing. He held up the tape for Sam to see.

"_Freedom from Demons_," Dean read off the title. "Well I don't know about you, but my curiosity was just kicked in the ass."

He turned the tape over in his hands and saw there was a description on the back. _This just keeps getting better and better_. Dean cleared his throat and read it out loud to Sam.

"_Friends, freedom lies inside this video tape."_ Dean stopped, gave Sam a half-laugh while holding up the tape again. "This tape here, Sammy. Can you believe it? All these years of hunting and it's been right here!"

"Dean."

"Yeah. Sorry." He looked back down at the back skimming the rest. "Blah blah blah, _demons are to blame for your pain_. Amen, brother, they're a friggin' pain in my ass. There's a testimonial here…uh… '_I felt oppressed, but he set me free'_…" Dean blew air through his lips in a scoff. "Yeah, for a price."

He took the tape, stood back, and Frisbeed it into the cabinet before shutting it.

Sam was still pouring over the numbers, finding a few more entries for five thousand and three thousand dollars, all for supposed exorcisms.

"He was profiting from their pain…" Sam whispered, suddenly feeling numb and on fire all in the same moment. He slammed the ledger shut, and then with a snarl, chucked it across the room. He dropped his head and stared angrily at the floor.

"I say again," Dean sighed. "God save us from the people who think they're doing God's work."

He moved over to the desk, hitching his hip up on the side to sit beside Sam, running a hand over the back of his neck. His eyes caught a remote control at the edge of the desk and he picked it up. Out of curiosity he pointed it at the TV/ VCR and flicked it on.

Sam lifted his head as they both were greeted by Father Simons. His voice, heavy with Midwestern twang, undulated in the familiar cadence of TV evangelists, assuring the congregation that donations were appreciated and that he takes nothing for himself.

"Right, and that Porsche outside is because you're God's favorite," Sam said in response.

"The thing that gets me," Dean started. "He makes exorcisms look like they're easy—like since he's a preacher…"

"Priest," Sam corrected.

"Whatever," Dean said, his hand moving to the bruising at his cheek. He probed at it tenderly, then turned and looked at the bruising along Sam's jaw. "Exorcisms aren't cake walks, man."

Sam shook his head. "I'm not even sure these are even real exorcisms... Can't be. All this just makes me think of Jim Murphy. Never once asked for anything in return. Always put his life on the line to help the possessed..."

"And this guy..." Dean added with wave at the screen.

"Yeah. I know..."

Sam got up and pushed the eject button on the player. He looked at the tape one more time before stuffing it into his jacket pocket.

Dean didn't say a word as he followed his brother all the way back to the Impala. Sam stopped before getting in, passing a glance over the hood as he leaned into her.

"It could still be related to the Hell Gate demons..." Sam said. "More out there. More possessions…"

"You said yourself you didn't feel like this guy was even performing legit exorcisms, Sam," Dean returned. "And the ledger goes back way past when that gate opened."

Sam nodded, tapping his laced hands on the roof before getting in. "Scum bag or not," he said as Dean slid in behind the wheel. "That guy didn't deserve to die like that. We still have a job to do."

Dean turned over the engine and Joe Walsh's _Turn to Stone_ poured from the speakers. He backed onto the road and shook his head. "Still not convinced this is supernatural—demonic or otherwise."

Sam leaned on his elbow against the window, exhausted by his brother's continued denial. "Let's just get back to the hotel."

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Considering how reticent Sam had been about stopping this hunt for food, Dean felt very little guilt in leaving his brother to study the latest clues while he went out for provisions. He returned to the motel inside of an hour with two bags filled with bread, peanut butter, chips, beef jerky, peanut M&Ms, gummy bears for Sam, and a six-pack of beer. The small motel didn't have a fridge, so he had to purchase items that wouldn't spoil too quickly, and since he abhorred warm beer, he planned on finishing this tonight and dealing with tomorrow's supply tomorrow.

He shuffled the bags of food into each arm, gripped the cardboard handle of the six-pack in his right and shut the back door of the Impala with his knee. The red neon of the motel sign reflected off the gleaming black of the car's body. He ambled up to the motel door softly singing the last stanza of Zeppelin's _Trampled Underfoot_.

"Feather-light suspension, Konis just couldn't hold; I'm so glad I took a look inside your showroom doors…"

As he reached the door, he realized that he'd put the room key in his back pocket. Sighing and shaking his head he considered kicking the bottom of the door to gain Sam's attention and let him in. But something stopped him. He stood staring at the door for a full minute, silent, trying to figure out what it was. He almost… didn't want to go inside. He had walked through hundreds—thousands—of motel room doors in his lifetime, greeting his family on the other side.

And suddenly he found himself reluctant to play the part, to put on the mask, to allow the show to go on. The bags of food started to become heavy in his arms, the stiff cardboard handle of the six-pack dug into the bend of his fingers, and still he stood, staring at the door.

A rattle of keys and the creak of a door came from his right and Dean shook himself mentally, glancing to the side. Next to the pop machines and ice maker was a door marked _Maintenance_. A tall, thin man wearing coveralls that looked to be two-sizes too big for him stepped out of the room, a large push-broom in his grip. He looked up, startled, at Dean's stare.

Dean tipped his chin up in a greeting. "What's up, man?"

He flicked his eyes from the man's blond hair and pale blue eyes to the red stitching on his right shoulder announcing to the world that this was Bob. Dean smiled, working to shift his bag from his left arm to balance in his right and reach back for his room key.

"Need some help?" Bob asked.

"Nah, I… got it… I think," Dean fished the key from his back pocket with two fingers, then settled the bag back into place. "Thanks, though," he nodded.

Bob returned the nod, then moved along the sidewalk in the opposite direction, shoving the push-broom ahead of him in short bursts of motion. Dean moved the key to the lock, pausing for a moment to watch the maintenance man move away from him, trying to decide if that would be hell or heaven. A normal, mundane job. Knowing what was expected of you, what would happen when you showed up for work, knowing that if you didn't change a light bulb or clean out the pool filter no one was going to die.

Sighing, Dean shook his head, physically forcing thoughts away from their melancholy slant and unlocked the door, opening it to the world he knew. The world of fear, pain, loss, redemption, and Sam.

"Little help here?" Dean called out, pulling Sam's attention from the TV to the door.

Sam hit pause on the remote control, tossed it on the bed next to him, then stood and grabbed one of the bags of food from Dean. He set it on the table and peeked inside.

"What all'd you get?"

"Just stuff that we didn't have to keep cold," Dean said eyeing the VCR. "Where'd you get that?"

"The motel office," Sam said, pulling out a loaf of bread and peanut butter. "You get knives or something?"

Dean lifted an eyebrow. "You're kidding, right?"

Sam sighed. "We use our knives to hunt, Dean."

"We use them to live, Sam," Dean argued, shrugging out of his jacket. "Don't be such a friggin' baby. Just use one, and we'll clean and sharpen it later."

"You're such a… freak," Sam grumbled good-naturedly.

Dean twisted the top off of a beer, set it down next to Sam and clapped him on the shoulder. "At least I'm among my own kind," he said, his mouth tipping up in a smile. He grabbed a beer and a bag of chips, sitting down on the bed, looking at the TV.

"What are we watching?"

Sam held up the bag of gummy bears, grinning his thanks, then took a large bite of his sandwich, turning and picking up the remote. "Check this out," he mumbled around a mouthful of peanut butter.

He hit play and Dean saw a very much alive Father Simons standing in front of a glass pulpit in a church different from the one that they'd just been in. He was gripping the pulpit with one hand, his eyes scrunched closed, his other hand raised high, palm up. Sweat glistened on his brow. He was saying, "…please send us holy priests, all for the sacred and Eucharistic heart of Jesus, all for the sorrowful and immaculate heart of Mary…"

Sam stopped the tape, rewound and played the same part again.

"You been watching this the whole time I was gone?" Dean asked.

"Just hang on," Sam instructed. "There's something here in the tape."

Raising an eyebrow, Dean glanced at his brother. "That girl from _The Ring_ call yet and say you have seven days to live?"

"Very funny," Sam grumbled, shoving the rest of his sandwich into his mouth. "Watch."

He rewound the tape. Father Simons implored the Heavens with his prayer to, "send us holy priests, all for the sacred and Eucharistic heart of Jesus, all for the sorrowful and immaculate heart of Mary…"

Dean blinked at a quick blip that seemed to shoot across the screen. He pulled his eyebrows together. "Wait."

"You saw that, right?"

"Do it again."

Sam played the same part of the tape once more. This time, peering closely at the TV, Dean saw a word inside the static that flashed across the screen.

"Frenum?"

"It's Latin," Sam said, taking a long drink from his beer.

"Dude, I know. I'm not an idiot," Dean frowned, sitting back further on the bed so that he could rest his back against the headboard. His muscles had started to tremble weakly in response to over-use and his bruises were doing their best to remind him that they planned on sticking around for a bit. "Means restraint or something, right?"

Sam glanced at him over his shoulder, an eyebrow lifted in surprise. "Yeah, actually."

Dean frowned, "This chick I knew once told me about how her ex-boyfriend got something called a frenum piercing." He looked up at Sam. "Not that I asked, but she said it was on his..."

Sam shuddered, "Aw, don't even... that's just—"

"Wrong," Dean said with him, mirroring his shudder.

They sat for a moment, silent, then shivered in unison again.

As if to clear the disturbing mental picture from his brain, Sam rubbed at his forehead. "It could also mean abstinence, y'know."

"Huh," Dean shrugged, taking a drink. "Not exactly one of my favorite words."

Sam smirked, stopping the tape and turned off the TV, shifting on the bed so that one leg was canted at an angle and he could see Dean.

Dean pointed to the darkened TV with his beer bottle. "So there's a message on the tape…" He looked over at Sam. "I swear if that chick's freaky ass comes out of the TV in seven days, I'm letting her have you for watching that shit."

Sam's tolerant grin faded slowly, the lines in his brow smoothing, and his eyes widening as realization clicked, puzzle pieces finally _finally_ falling into place.

"Seven days…" he murmured, a grin splitting his face as relief filled his eyes. "Dean you're a freakin' genius!"

Dean blinked, raising his eyebrows. "What? _The Ring_ girl did this?"

"Seven days!" Sam clapped a hand hard on Dean's outstretched leg, then bounced up, heading to his laptop. "I can't believe I didn't… I mean it was _right there_!"

"What the hell are you—"

"_Frenum, liberalites, humilitas_… those are three of the Seven Virtues, right?" Sam's fingers flew over the laptop keyboard and he shot his eyes up to Dean.

"If you say so," Dean swung his legs over the side of the bed, resting his forearms on his knees, his beer hanging loosely from his fingers. "My Latin stops at… well, Latin."

"Okay, so," Sam straightened and turned the computer toward Dean. "I've been going about this all wrong. I mean, I knew that these were part of the Seven Virtues, but so the hell what, right?"

Dean pressed his lips together and nodded, watching Sam in the grip of revelation.

"But the Seven Virtues correspond with the Seven Deadly Sins—"

"Whoa, wait… I think I saw this movie," Dean pulled his head up, his eyebrows meeting over the bridge of his nose.

"Okay, so…" Sam rubbed his forehead, thinking. "We found _humilitas_ at Daniel Gibson's right?"

"Yeah, well, that and _liberalitas_," Dean reminded him.

"Right, but," Sam raised a finger and grabbed the letter from Daniel's Bible. "The letter says _Your pride, Daniel, will be the death of you."_

"Okay…"

"And what's the opposite of pride?"

Dean lifted a shoulder, "Humility."

"Right! Humility," Sam said. Now that the wheels were in motion, he was finding it hard to stop. Words started tumbling together, slamming against each other in his head in their eagerness to escape. "And the opposite of generosity is greed, right? And we found all those ledger entries in Father Simons' office—"

Dean stood suddenly. "Wait, Sam," he tapped the air with his fingers, his beer sloshing in the near-empty bottle. "Are you saying—"

"I think something is killing people guilty of these sins," Sam said, standing, his shoulders open, hands loose at his sides, daring Dean to contradict him. He was _right._ He knew it. He knew it in his heart.

"And what… leaving clues about… the next one?"

"Why not?"

"Pretty vague clues," Dean turned away from Sam, setting his beer down on the small table between the still-full grocery bags.

"Not for a demon," Sam argued. "We're talking about basic religious teaching, Dean. Who knows religion better than a _demon_?"

Dean turned to the side, looking at his brother. "Okay, I'll give you that, but…"

"What?" Sam was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"Dude, that cop's serial killer theory could still—"

"A message is _burned into this tape_. It's a demon, Dean," Sam asserted. "Just… why can't you trust me on this?"

Dean turned to face him, looking his brother in the eye. _It's not you I don't trust… we've been burned, Sammy… I've been burned… I've tasted them… I know how they play and this…_ "It just doesn't feel right, man."

Sam took a breath, settling his shoulders, dropping his chin, then lifted his eyes to meet Dean's wary hazel ones. "Okay, even if it's not a demon, do you agree that there is someone or something out there killing based on these sins?"

Dean worked his jaw. "Yeah, okay."

"So we still have to stop them."

Dean took a breath, leaning his hip against the table and picking up his beer. He finished the first bottle, setting it down and picked up a second, twisting the top off. He felt Sam waiting, felt his brother's need to see this through. He didn't understand why _this_ hunt, _this_ killer was so necessary for Sam.

Looking back at Sam's earnest eyes, Dean felt something inside of him give. If Sam said it was evil, more often than not, it was evil. And Dean knew he would turn himself inside out to fight it for him. Because it was Sam.

"Okay, Sam," he nodded.

"Okay? Okay as in you're in this with me?"

Dean pulled in a breath. "Two sins down, five to go, right?"

Dean watched as Sam visibly relaxed. Saying nothing, Sam dropped into the chair in front of the laptop with an air of resolve.

"If I'm right, Daniel was Pride, and uh, Father Simons? Was…"

"One greedy bastard," Dean filled in, walking over to stand behind Sam, looking at the laptop screen.

"Right. So," Sam indicated the screen he pulled up. "That means we have Sloth, Envy, Wrath, Gluttony, and Lust left."

"Yeah, but," Dean looked at the evidence Sam had gathered on the table. "How are we gonna know who this freak thinks is guilty of which sin? Mercy's a small town, but…"

Sam sighed, resting his hand on his thigh and looking up at his brother. "We got five people to save, Dean."

Dean rubbed his hand over his mouth. _Where the hell did they start?_

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a/n:

The "Indie" song was Death Cab for Cutie's _Soul Meets Body_…

Stick with us… there's more mystery, more angst, and the body count is rising…


	3. Wednesday: Gluttony

**Disclaimer/Spoilers/Authors:** See Chapter 1.

a/n: Sorry for the delay, guys. Between life and, well… _life_, we managed to wrestle this chapter into submission. Starting now, the chapters will be longer and more involved. This story could easily be told in more than 8 chapters, but as most of you have realized, there is a sin for every day, and that rhythm dictated the chapters… so we hope you'll bear with us and that you have fun with the length and the mystery.

Thanks so much for your reviews – and for reading! We hope you continue to enjoy the ride.

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"Gluttony is an emotional escape, a sign something is eating us."

- Peter De Vries

We ate the food, we drank the wine  
Everybody having a good time  
Except you  
You were talking about the end of the world…

"Until the end of the World" – U2

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Wednesday: Gluttony

Dean was dreaming again.

Sam could just make out the trace of his brother's voice, his unique timbre weaving through Sam's dreams. Walking within the gray moment between waking and facing a new day, or plummeting over the edge into the more amiable embrace of sleep, Sam wasn't able to register Dean's distress.

Instead he turned onto his side and buried his head into the silence of his pillow. While his body chose to seek with abandon the release of being unaware, part of his mind was still in the room with Dean. His brother struggled silently, writhing in the unsympathetic arms of his sheets. Sam was semi-conscious of a need to get up, to move, to help Dean, however, the allure of silence and rest and darkness had already pulled him under and away from Dean.

Sleep didn't sever the connection to Dean. Instead his brother's peril manifested itself within Sam's new dreams. It conjured up images and memories that Sam was never able to evade. It played with and distorted the truth, jumbling places and people into a mosaic of confusion.

Sam was standing above Jake, watching the man's eyes go large, pupils constricting as he started to plead for his life through blood-coated lips. Sam felt nothing even closely resembling sympathy or mercy. Just cold resolve. Nothing would satiate him in that moment except to see Jake stop moving, to see this Judas stop his unjustified pleading. Jake had killed without flinching. Sam had stopped himself from taking Jake's life before and had been given Hell in return for his humanity. It was time to rectify his mistakes and take retribution.

The gun kicked in his hands and Sam watched the life drain away within Jake's dulling eyes. It left Sam with a cold yet fueling satisfaction that burned alongside of his anger. But when the fire inside him finally burned out and his anger abated, the cold overwhelmed the feeling of satisfaction, and Sam felt his soul recoil in response to watching Jake's blood being consumed greedily by the ground.

Dean's voice drifted to Sam's ears while he stood as judge, jury, and executioner above Jake's body. He couldn't make out what Dean was saying, but he lifted his eyes in the direction of the sound. For a brief second he felt relief at hearing Dean nearby, but Sam's reprieve from this nightmare was short lived as his eyes fell upon his brother.

Dean was pinned unceremoniously to a tombstone by an invisible force of strength, his face bleeding from the gash on his forehead, his eyes desperate, pleading with Sam. Dean's mouth was moving, but Sam couldn't discern the words. His voice was muffled, muted, and it wasn't following the cadence of his lips. It was like the sound in Sam's mind had been messed with somehow. What whispers Sam could make out of Dean's voice faded away, and his ears only picked up the white-noise that filled the maddening silence as he strained to pick up something, _anything._

Dean was still speaking to him and Sam pressed his hands into the sides of his head to stop the painful monotone that was buzzing through his skull. He wanted to hear what Dean was saying, but every time he tried to focus on his brother's mouth, his temples ached with a hollowed-out feeling. Sam clamped his eyes shut, opening his mouth in silent protest to the painful confusion.

_Dean…_

And suddenly Sam could hear again. The single high-pitched hum in his ears drained away, leaving him pulling the rustle of the tree leaves and the breath of the wind into his ears.

"What am I supposed to do?"

Dean's voice had returned, and it was stronger than before and closer than Sam had expected it to be. There was a weakness to it, a painful twinge laced throughout the words. Sam opened his eyes, looking up at the tombstone where Dean had been caught earlier. His brother was no longer there. Sam's heart sped up and his eyes darted back down to Jake.

Sam gasped, the air catching in his chest as he took in his brother lying on the ground instead of Jake. Dean's chest was opened up with ragged bullet holes and _Dean's _blood was spilling over onto the hungry earth. The same light that had been fading from Jake's irises was now leaving Dean's tortured hazel eyes, and Sam dropped to his knees, his legs no longer able to hold him upright as he denied within his soul what he'd done.

_Nononono…This is wrong. _

Dean's chest rose and fell quickly in shallow gasps as he struggled to breathe, choking on his own blood. It rattled in his throat as he tried to reach up for Sam, his lips working in an attempt to speak.

"What…was I s'posed …t-to do S-Sammy?"

The gun fell from Sam's loose hand and he pulled his brother to him, holding him, trying desperately to wake up.

"I cost you everything…" Sam whispered.

And Sam felt Dean go still in his arms, felt one last breath drift against his neck…

"No!" Sam cried out, sitting up in bed to pull in a struggled breath of denial. He looked frantically over at Dean, taking in his crumpled profile, his head pressed into the sheets. Sam let out a breath of relief, rubbing at his face to reorient himself in the here and now.

Sam looked back over at Dean, studying his unsettled sleep. His brother's features glistened in the wan morning light, covered in a thick sheen of sweat. His brow creased and his face twisted fiercely into a frown. His hands, fisted in the sheets, were moving to push them away from him as if the material was pulling him down, holding him somewhere he desperately didn't want to be. He was struggling in his own dreamscape and Sam lowered his head.

_When will this end?_

"Dean," Sam called out.

He was hoping that would break his brother free from the snares of his mind, but Dean didn't wake. Sam blinked, thinking about how frequent these nightmares had become; every night since they'd left the last hunt and taken on this one. Dean had them occasionally since the Hell Gate. But now… now they seemed more violent and real to his brother. The way Dean shifted and groaned out words. Like he was fighting something…

Dean's movements became more panic-stricken and Sam knew he couldn't just sit there and watch him struggle alone. He needed to wake him, to get him out of that dream.

Pushing away the blanket and sheets, Sam swung his legs over the edge of the bed, peering closely at his brother's face. He tried desperately to shake off the after-image of Dean bleeding, Dean dying, the light leaving his brother's eyes.

"Dean." This time it was more than a call; it was a reassurance. _You're okay, I'm okay… we're together, we're alive._

Dean's face didn't relax at the sound of his brother's voice—if anything, the lines around his eyes tightened, and Sam watched as the muscle along his jaw bounced in a rhythm betraying the chaos that tangled his brother's mind. Blinking in the shadows created inside the motel room from the early-morning light, Sam reached over and switched on the bedside lamp, then shifted to Dean's bed, perching on the edge and reaching for Dean's upper arm. Touching it gently, he called his brother's name again and was startled when Dean's eyes snapped open and he started to push himself upright.

"Hey, you okay?"

Dean blinked at him, unseeing. His pupils were so wide Sam could barely discern any green. Frowning, Sam reached for Dean's arm once more.

"What's goin' on?" Dean muttered, his voice rough, the words slurred with sleep and memories.

Sam wrapped his long fingers around Dean's arm and jumped when Dean jerked violently away.

"Where's he?"

"Who, Dean?"

"Sam," Dean's eyes began to dart around the room, his expression frantic. He pushed away from Sam, backing up in the bed until he hit the headboard.

"What?" Sam choked out.

"Was just here… where's he?"

Sam swallowed, a tight, cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Take it easy, Dean," he said softly, reaching out a hesitant hand for Dean's shoulder.

At his touch, Dean flinched, his eyes flashing over Sam's face, his blink long and forced. Sam suddenly knew Dean wasn't seeing him, wasn't seeing the motel room, wasn't even seeing _now_. Sam had seen this happen to Dean before. Once. After a hunt that had gone very, very wrong. Seeing Dean… vulnerable… had scared Sam worse than the hunt his family had just returned from.

"You're dreaming, Dean," Sam said softly, his fingers hovering over Dean's arm, afraid to touch him. "Just go back to sleep, okay?"

Sam realized that he hadn't paid close enough attention to the increasing ferocity of Dean's nightmares, or he might have seen this coming. _How did Dad handle this?_ Scrubbing a hand over his face once more, Sam searched his memory for that night, that moment when Dean had been close to breaking, when surviving once more by the skin of their teeth had pulled one too many bricks from his wall.

_"Easy, Dude, just take it easy…"_

_"It's here, Dad, I see it, it's here…"_

_"Dad?"_

_"Sammy, go back to bed."_

_"What's wrong with Dean?"_

_"He's just having a nightmare."_

_"B-but… he's awake…"_

_"Get him, Dad, quick, get Sammy, Dad, get out…"_

_"He's not really awake, Sam."_

Sam had been too young to go with them on that hunt… John and Dean had returned silent, dirty, and shaken. Dean had gone to sleep without showering or saying a word. Sam woke to find John in their room, Dean backed into a corner, crouched low, one hand bracing himself from behind, the other out before him, fingers clenched in a fist. His eyes had been wide, and they'd darted around the room, resting on nothing. Sam had watched as his father slowly approached, hands out, open, unthreatening.

"What am I supposed to do?"

That plea, that question had echoed through Sam's dream, altering it, twisting it until his subconscious shook him into realizing that this life, _their_ life, was slowly wearing his brother down. Sam dropped his hand from his face, feeling his mouth pull low at the corners, the hot sting that warned of tears beating at the back of his eyes.

"Just… just take it easy, man," Sam whispered.

_"Take it easy, kiddo,"_ John had soothed. _"It's over, okay? It's dead."_

_"It's here, Dad, I see it, get Sammy…"_

Dean's words had run together, Sam remembered, his breath had hitched, his shoulders had visibly trembled. As they were now. Sam remembered convulsively curling and releasing his fingers into helpless fists as he watched his brother stare into the middle distance, wanting to stop whatever was happening, wanting to grab his brother.

_"It's not here, Dean. It's gone. We killed it. You did good."_

_"Not gonna get him, Dad, not gonna get him…"_

_"No, it's not gonna get him. You burned it, Dean. You made it. We made it."_

Sam pulled his lower lip in, biting it hard as he watched Dean's much-older, battle-worn eyes search the room for the brother he could still remember losing. That night, John's voice had been calm, whisper-soft, almost gentle. John had rarely been gentle, rarely soft in Sam's memory. Their lives had demanded that he focus them, that he teach them to survive, that he command them.

But as he'd crouched in front of Dean that night, Sam remembered John reaching out a careful hand, gripping Dean's shoulder with an almost tender grasp, and pulling his son close to him until Dean was almost hidden from Sam's eyes by the expanse of John's back.

Later, Sam had asked John what had happened and held his breath at the broken look that shot through his father's eyes.

_"Sometimes the battle is harder to win than the war, Sammy. Sometimes, it's all just too much."_

They had barely paused for breath upon leaving the Hell Gate in Wyoming. It had been weeks of nothing but struggling and exorcisms, death and pain. Sam felt close to the brink most days, but where he gave himself permission to be human, Dean had simply shorn up his walls until…

"Couldn't let him die, Bobby…"

"What?" Sam blinked, coming back to himself, his hand still hovering over Dean's arm.

"He's my brother." Hands fisted in the pillows flanking him, back pressed against the headboard, Dean was looking past him, his dilated eyes shifting, as if searching through images, reliving that one moment of terror. His voice was hushed, breathy, rapid words of panic stumbling through lips frozen with memory. "My job, man… watched him all his life… watched him… couldn't lose him… couldn't lose you, Sammy…"

Sam scooted slightly forward on the bed, his motion bunching the tangle of sheets and creating a barrier between their bodies. John had known exactly how to calm Dean, how to assure him that the nightmare wasn't real, that he'd done his job. Sam reached for Dean, trying to find it in himself to echo that strength, to assure the one person in his life that had always been a rock that it was okay to bend, it was okay to lean...

_God, I miss you, Dad_, Sam thought with an ache so powerful it lodged a suffocating lump at the base of his throat.

As he rested a gentle hand on Dean's shoulder, his brother gasped, his head tipping back, his eyes fluttering rapidly. When he spoke, Sam's heart broke at the childlike tremor of fear that escaped.

"He's burning, fire's so hot… 'cause of me… can't do this anymore… Sam! SAM!"

"I'm right here," Sam slid his hand from Dean's shoulder to the back of his neck, gripping tightly, trying to pull Dean's eyes to his, but his brother's nightmare held him tight. "I'm _right here_, Dean."

"It's not even that bad," Dean's voice was barely a breath now, "I'll take care'a you, Sammy… it's my job…"

"Aw, Christ, Dean," Sam whispered. He gripped the nape of his brother's neck and shook him. "Don't do this, man, _please_. It's over, okay?"

Dean blinked again and suddenly seemed to focus. Sam felt tears of frustrated helplessness spilling down his face as he peered at Dean, trying to determine if he was awake or if all of this was still part of his nightmare.

"I'm gonna burn, Sam," Dean whispered, his wide eyes steady, raw. "They're waiting for me."

Sam dropped his eyes to the pile of sheets between them. A strange sort of impotent rage began to build in his chest, heating his gut and spreading slowly through his limbs. He felt it searing his eyes and burning the back of his throat. He clenched his jaw tight against the scream of fury at the insensitivity of the universe; he wanted to hit something, hard. With a concentrated effort, Sam pulled his fingers from the back of Dean's neck and looked at his brother's devastated, open expression.

Sam wanted to cry and growl at the same time. He wanted to shake Dean hard and yet he wanted to pull him close as he'd remembered John doing. He wanted to storm out and slam the door behind him and he never wanted to let Dean out of his sight. Working to relax his fisted hands, he pushed carefully at Dean's shoulder, trying to tip him over onto his side, get him to lie down.

"You just gotta go back to sleep, Dean," Sam said, hearing the tears of anger in his voice. "It'll be okay if you go back to sleep."

Dean allowed himself to be maneuvered. As he slowly melted over to his side, Sam watched as his eyes blinked longer, slower. "Not gonna be okay," Dean protested softly. "Not anymore."

"Yes, it will," Sam insisted in a tight voice. "It will, Dean."

Dean ended up in a sideways slump, his head and shoulders on top of the pillow he'd tucked his knife under the night before, his back against the headboard, his legs curled up against him. Sam pulled at the tangle of sheets and spread them over the side of his brother.

"I made you a promise, man," Sam whispered as he stood up. "I'm gonna get you out of this. Why won't you believe me?"

Dean's eyes were closed, his lashes casting sooty shadows across his cheeks, but somehow he heard Sam. "Can't lose you, Sammy."

Sam shoved his hands into his hair. _And what if I lose you, huh? _He curled his fingers until they tugged painfully at his scalp. Keeping his eyes pinned to Dean, he watched as his brother allowed the deeper sleep to claim him once more, watching as his shoulders relaxed by increments, as he tucked slowly into the pillow.

When Dean sighed, Sam lifted his eyes to the curtained window set to the side of the motel door. Morning light had shifted from gray to gold as the sun lit the horizon and warmed their world. Swiping at his cheeks with the back of his hand, Sam shuffled around the end of Dean's bed and headed to the bathroom. He needed to rid his mind of the cobwebs, of the memories, of the anger that seemed to be digging furrows through his heart.

As steam filled the bathroom, Sam leaned over the sink, gripping the porcelain sides and hanging his head. He thought once more about that night so long ago. He thought of his father's voice, of the care John took with his son. He thought of the last words John had spoken to him, asking him if they could _please, just not fight_. Sam felt his jaw tremble. So much had happened since then. So much…

And then John had been there. Had saved Dean. Had saved _them_. And the expression in his father's eyes when he'd looked over at Sam had been pride wrapped in relief surrounded by love. It had filled Sam until he couldn't breathe. Until he was trembling from the weight of it.

A low sob escaped and Sam brought his head up. He clenched his jaw, drawing in the emotion, stamping it out as he'd seen his brother do so many times in his life. Dean did _not_ make that sacrifice in vain. Sam was going to make sure of it. His brother wasn't going to burn. He didn't care _who_ was waiting for him.

When Sam stepped out of the bathroom, humidity from the shower following in his wake, the first thing he saw was Dean's bruised back hunched over the table strewn with clues. The angry purple marks had faded around the edges to a dusty yellow, but they still looked painful. He was dressed only in his boxers, evidently waiting for Sam to get out of the shower before he made any further effort to prepare for the day.

Dean glanced over his shoulder at the sound of the bathroom door opening. "'Bout time, Princess." He dropped the St. Patrick's pendant back on the table. "There's a water shortage in Oklahoma, y'know."

"Bite me," Sam tossed back with a tiny smile.

Dean's eyes were shadowed, secret, _normal_. Gone was the raw fear, the open door to the wounded soul that Sam couldn't bear to see. Sam crossed the room to dig a T-shirt from his duffel bag.

"You sleep okay?" Sam asked.

"Eh, sleep is overrated," Dean commented. "There are better things to do with the nighttime hours."

Sam grinned, shaking his head. "You really are a slut."

"Not true," Dean lifted an eyebrow. "I'm a connoisseur."

"Oh, is that it?"

Sam sat on the chair next to the table, leaning over to pull on his boots. His relief that while Dean may remember the dream, he didn't seem to remember the waking nightmare—and if he did, he wasn't talking about it—was hidden from his brother as he bent low to tie up the laces.

As Sam straightened, his shoulder bumped the table, sending the VHS tape and pendant sliding off. Dean rotated and caught the tape, letting the pendant fall to the ground. Sam bent to pick up the pendant.

"Looks like we got the wrench and the lead pipe, Colonel Mustard," Dean quipped. "All we need now is the candlestick and we're home free."

Sam absentmindedly fingered the worn edges of the pendant, his eyes on the Bible. "Not exactly," he said. "We don't know who or where…"

Dean snapped his fingers as he headed toward the bathroom. "Right! The conservatory. Always forget about that place. What is a conservatory anyway?"

Sam ignored Dean's blatant attempt at making light of the situation. "We need to go do some recon, Dean."

Dean paused in the doorway of the bathroom, hand on the door jam. "Good idea. When I'm done, let's head back to the diner."

Sam brought his head up. "What the hell are we gonna find there?"

"No idea," Dean shrugged. His mouth tipped up in a grin. "But I'm starvin', and I'd like to see Gwen about some pie."

"Pie? It's like... seven in the morning!"

Dean's grin widened. "Always time for... pie."

He ducked into the bathroom, closing the door behind him, blocking out Sam's frown.

www

Dean swung the Impala around the nearest gas pump, using one hand to steer with unparalleled precision, and brought her safely into park. Both windows were down, and Dean was contentedly bobbing his head to Zeppelin's _D'yer Mak'er_, sunglasses in place above the upturned corners of his mouth as he sang along.

_"When I read the letter you sent me, it made me mad mad mad. When I read the news that it brought me, it made me sad sad sad. But I still love you so, I can't let you go, I love you- ooh baby I love you..." _

Dean took in a deep breath and let it out audibly to make his satisfaction clear before shutting off the Impala.

Sam looked up from his writing for a moment to take in the sight of his brother. One arm out the window and one on the wheel, and while he bore one of his trademark _all is well with the world_ grins, the lines around his eyes were visible beneath his shades. But a little fresh air in his beloved car, some Zeppelin, and Dean was strangely like a new man. More, Dean was like Sam remembered him. The Dean he knew before deals with demons had become family practice.

_Too bad it's all an act_. For just one moment Sam wished that his brother's happiness wasn't a fabrication that even Dean himself had bought into. Dean slipped into masks with such ease that no one but Sam would have known that just this morning his brother had been pushed to the edge of a waking nightmare. The casual observer never would have guessed that Dean was simply waiting for Hell to open up beneath his feet.

Sam blamed the years of practice that Dean had accrued, hiding truth within the safety-nets of sarcasm and simplicity, for Dean concealing mental wounds now. It was a good thing, then, that Sam had years of practice looking at what hid behind all the carefully placed bricks in his walls.

Sam went back to the words he had listed in the back of his father's journal: the three virtues that they'd found so far. Sam had also sketched out the pendant, making a rubbing of the front. It was weird to add to the pages John had written, yet, at the same time, this was just one way Sam thought he could continue in the memory of his father; keep on hunting, keep on filling these pages with the things that they came across.

The pendant, letter, and tape were sitting in a pile on the seat beside him. Sam drummed one hand against the words penned on the page.

"_Humilitas, Liberalitas, Frenum… Frenum_…"

Sam wasn't aware that he was repeating the word over and over again until he felt Dean's eyes burning into him. Dean kept fidgeting and Sam got the hint before Dean even said anything.

"Dude, you keep talking about abstinence—in Latin or any language for that matter—I'm going to leave you here."

Sam lifted a teasing eyebrow. "It doesn't only have to do with sex, Dean."

His brother returned the remark with an incensed look. He took off his sunglasses and tossed them up on the dash. "Sure, right. I knew that," he muttered, eyes shifting to the side.

"It could reference anything that people do too much of… like eating or drinking or gambling or… well, name your vice. So of the seven sins, the next victim could be…"

"Lust or Gluttony," Dean finished.

"So, I… just gotta figure out… y'know… where to start…" Sam sighed, closing his father's journal.

Dean shifted his weight, putting one hand on the door; Sam could tell he wanted out of the car.

"You want anything?" Dean asked, one foot already out of the Impala.

"What? Like a snack on the way to breakfast?" Sam laughed.

He looked up at Dean and his smile faded. There was something about Dean's face. His brother was forcing normal as hard as he could, trying to move around the obvious internal issues like they weren't there. Staying still for too long left him facing it.

Hearing about this hunt wasn't helping him either. For some reason this hunt was making Dean anxious. There was something off and it echoed from Dean's weary eyes. He was working extra hard to keep his game-face on… _Talk to me, Dean…_

"Uh…" Sam started, searching his mind for something that he needed from the gas station convenience store. "A newspaper. That might help."

The request had no sooner left Sam's lips, than Dean had turned and practically sprinted into the store. Sam followed his brother with his eyes, sighing as he disappeared through the glass doors. The sooner that Sam figured this out, the sooner they could leave and maybe change their direction. They'd spent weeks going after the Hell Gate demons, trying to clean up their mess. Sam was beginning to think they should shift their focus to looking for a way to free Dean from his contract.

Sam had been doing what he could on the side. He already had Bobby and a few of Bobby's contacts looking for loop holes. Maybe when Dean was out from under the Crossroads Demon's hold, then they could hunt down the rest of the Hell Gate demons…

Now, though, Sam wanted to leave one hunt where they actually _saved_ someone. They were too involved in this to back out now. Knowing that whatever was killing these people still had five victims in mind, Sam refused to give up.

He set down the journal on top of the video tape and got out to put gas in the car. Someone pumping gas on the other side locked eyes with Sam, and Sam smiled his greeting. The man didn't return Sam's warm gesture. He put back the nozzle and got back behind the wheel of his truck, his cold gaze never leaving Sam.

_Friendly… How the hell did this town get its title?_

Sam considered ways to go about asking questions of the locals. Walking up to someone and saying, "Hey, do you think it's strange that three of the seven virtues were left on the victims?" didn't exactly sound like a smooth or stealthy way to go about the investigation. Then again, if he wasn't careful, that was probably what Dean would end up doing.

Sam cast a look back at the doors his brother had entered. His mind drifted for the millionth time that morning to Dean's dream. His hollowed-out expression, the words he'd spoken without being aware that he was laying his soul out in front of Sam, all burned into Sam's mind along with the mystery in Mercy.

Sam had spent a huge chunk of the night before looking up the Seven Virtues on the Internet, but the most he was able to come up with was a reference to _Psychomachia_, an epic poem written by Aurelius Clemens Prudentius, and the Seven Deadly Sins. The latter led him to Dante's _Divine Comedy_, which only made Sam wish that he'd paid better attention in World Literature.

_Library it is_, he thought. _Dean's gonna love that_.

Sam topped off the gas, returning the pump to the holder. He glanced up to see Dean through the window in line at the check-out counter. He met his brother's eyes, indicated the pump with his head and watched as Dean nodded. _Got it. _

Sam slouched against the trunk of the Impala, waiting for Dean to come back so that they could get moving. He needed more than just _Frenum_ and some obscure book references to help him figure out who was next. How was it picking them? How did it know? Sam had to believe there was more of a pattern than just… chance.

He was startled out of the maze in his mind by the crack of a bat and the unified cry of success by the voices of several boys playing baseball in a sandlot across from the gas station. Sam let his eyes follow the kid that had hit the homer as he rounded the bases, slightly in awe of the energy displayed at such an early hour. Some days it was all he could do to roll out of bed and force himself upright. _When did twenty-four become old?_

He heard the door of the store open and looked over his shoulder as his brother exited, a newspaper tucked under one arm and an opened bag of Peanut M&Ms in the other. Dean popped two of the candies into his mouth, grinning at Sam.

"Want some?" He held out the bag.

Sam shook his head. "Dude," he reached for the paper under Dean's arm. "We have got to discuss your eating habits."

"What are you talking about?" Dean's eyebrows quirked over the bridge of his nose as he tossed a blue M&M into his mouth.

Voices from the lot rose in a chorus of disappointment and Dean and Sam raised their heads simultaneously to regard the group of kids as the youths turned as one to follow the path of their wayward baseball. The ball crossed the road unmolested and bounced up and over the curb, coming to rest against the Impala's rear tire. Dean handed the M&Ms to Sam, bent over and grabbed up the ball.

"Here, Mister!" Called a hefty kid with enough freckles peppering his face that he looked almost tan. He pounded a small, meaty fist into his open glove as he jogged to the edge of the lot. "I'll make it easy for ya!"

The kid crouched, glove up, open, and waiting.

Dean felt his mouth relax into a natural smile—he paused, relishing the feel of the moment, the feel of _enjoying_ something for the sake of enjoying and not because it was going to promote an end result. Not because it was going to take him somewhere or get him out of... or into... something.

"I'd back up," Dean called, waving lazy fingers in Freckles' direction.

The kid grinned. "Sure, Mister. If you say so." He didn't move.

Dean tossed a quick glance at Sam, watching his brother's open interest and easy grin. Rolling his shoulders once, Dean pulled back his right arm, fingers twitching over the stitches of the small, white ball, hitched his left leg up slightly, stepped into the motion and let go of the ball.

He grinned as Freckles' eyes widened, his head ticking back and over as he watched the ball clear the outfield and pitcher's mound. The miniature catcher tossed off his mask, backing up into the fence, his glove up, catching the ball with the tip of his mitt, then pulling his arm down quickly and lifting his eyes up to peer at the man in the leather jacket who had just cleared the road as well as the entire lot with one throw.

Freckles turned back to regard Dean with wide eyes. "Uh… thanks, Mister."

Dean lifted a shoulder. "All in the wrist."

He turned back to Sam, holding out his hand for the M&Ms. Sam handed him the bag, still grinning.

"Why didn't you ever play ball?"

"Who says I didn't?"

"I do."

Dean leaned against the Impala's trunk next to Sam. He popped a green M&M into his mouth, rolling it over his tongue and sucking the candy shell from the chocolate. "I played ball, Sam."

"When?" Sam looked over at him, unconsciously rolling the newspaper into a cylinder.

Dean crunched the peanut and met Sam's eyes. "You were there, man. Uh… Philly maybe?"

Sam simply looked at him.

"There was a sandlot kinda like that one," Dean nodded toward the kids taking advantage of the coolness of the morning. "We'd head out there every afternoon, meet up with some of the neighborhood kids… we stayed in that place for like a month, man." Dean frowned at Sam. "You don't remember?"

Sam shook his head, silent. He stared at the paper clutched in his hand, the toe of his boot, the kids in the sandlot across the way—anywhere but Dean.

"What is it, Sam?"

"Nothing."

"C'mon," Dean bumped his elbow against Sam's arm. "Open and honest hour."

_Sure it is_, Sam thought. _For everyone but you._

Sam kept his eyes on the kids. "You think that…"

Dean felt Sam shift his weight against the unyielding surface of the Impala. He waited. Sam would talk. He always did. He _wanted_ to. It was just a matter of him finding the right words.

"What if I came back… wrong?"

The question was uttered so softly that had Dean popped the M&M he held poised over his open mouth he would have missed it. He dropped the candy back into the bag and let his shoulders roll forward, his hands resting on his thighs.

"We've talked about this, Sam."

Sam stayed silent; they sat so close that Dean felt Sam's shoulders stiffen. He turned and watched his brother's profile.

"You aren't _wrong_… you're _you_."

"I can't remember playing ball, though," Sam said, his throat working. Dean kept his eyes on Sam's face, waiting. "I can't remember other stuff, either."

"Like what?"

Sam shrugged. "Little things… like… where we were when Dad took you on your first hunt, or… how old I was when I found out about Mom."

"Nebraska, and five."

Sam looked straight ahead. "See? You remember."

"I'm older, Sam," Dean said softly.

"So?" Sam turned to look at him, his eyes full and tinged with an honest fear.

"So… it's part of the job description." Dean crinkled his eyes, not quite smiling, but his face relaxing just the same, letting Sam know with that subtle movement that it was okay… _this_ was okay. "You got me around to remember the stuff you can't. I got you around to…"

"Be a pain in your ass?" Sam offered with a hesitant smile.

"Basically, yeah."

They sat for another minute, watching the kids play ball. Dean crumpled the empty M&M bag in his hand and tossed it into the garbage can between the pumps.

"What are they doin' out anyway," he asked around a mouthful of chocolate. "Shouldn't they be in school?"

"School's out for summer, Dean," Sam said, pushing away from the trunk of the car and moving to the passenger door.

"It is?" Dean asked, looking back as Freckles taunted the batter. "Where does the time go?"

Though said with a hint of amused sarcasm, Dean felt a slight hitch in his chest that echoed through his heart and skittered across his still-bruised back. _It went to the demons and the devils… _The darkness of the world was eating up his time.

He pulled his keys from his pocket and flipped them over into the palm of his hand. Starting toward the driver's side, he pulled up short at Freckles' call.

"Hey, Mister! Tommy had to go home," he yelled, his mitt cupped alongside his mouth. "You wanna play?"

Dean glanced at Sam, a grin splitting his features, his eyes alight with the possibility. Sam simply lifted an eyebrow, shook his head, and opened his door. Dean looked back over at Freckles.

"You couldn't take the heat, kid," Dean called.

"Eh," Freckles waved his glove at the Impala and turned back to continue heckling the batter.

Dean met Sam's eyes. "Friendly town."

Sam flicked a glance over Dean's shoulder to the gas station attendant watching through the glass doors. _Friendly, right... _Mercy was a town full of secrets. Sam folded his body into the Impala and closed the door.

Dropping behind the wheel, Dean glanced over as Sam scanned the front page of the newspaper, then flipped through a few more pages. He stuck the key in the ignition and fired up the engine, the radio belting out a morning DJ's rapid voice.

"So, diner then?"

Sam shook his head. "Library."

Dean rolled his eyes. "You gotta be kiddin' me."

"Dean," Sam looked up. "There's an entire article here about how the police are baffled by Father Simons' death."

Dean lifted an eyebrow. "Yeah, so? It was... hinky."

"Doesn't say anything about Daniel Gibson."

Tugging the gearshift down to drive, Dean pulled slowly from the gas station and headed in the direction of the town center and the diner. "Maybe they don't see the connection that you see."

Sam closed the paper and turned down the radio. "You mean that _we _see."

Dean turned up the radio. Boston's _Peace of Mind _bounced through the interior of the car. "I'm not so sure, Sam."

"Dean, you said—"

"I said I'd go with you on the killer following the deadly sins thing," Dean glanced over at his brother. "But I'm still not buying demon here."

Sam sighed, facing forward. His jaw clenching. "Why _**not**_?"

Dean took a breath. "There wasn't any sulfur at either of the scenes—"

"Doesn't mean that—"

"Sam," Dean interrupted. "Why go to all of this trouble, huh? Why leave behind these clues? Why… _punish_ like this?"

Sam frowned, looking sideways at Dean while Tom Scholz crooned in the background.

_"I understand about indecision, but I don't care if I get behind. People livin' in competition, all I want is to have my peace of mind…"_

"What do you mean?"

"God, Sam, demons just..." Dean sighed, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. "When have we ever known a demon to give us… give _anyone_ a chance to stop them? I mean... clues? Teaching lessons?"

"Lessons?"

"That letter, man. Whoever killed Daniel Gibson was making a point." Dean shook his head, glancing to the side mirror. "Demons just don't..."

"The yellow-eyed demon—"

"What, Sam," Dean snapped suddenly, heat in his voice triggered by the mention of the being that had dictated the path of their lives. "What? He gave us _nothing_. He showed you only what he wanted you to see. He's dead because _we_ beat him, alright? Not because he gave us a fuckin' chance."

Sam swallowed, nodding quickly. "Okay."

Dean tightened his jaw, pulling a breath in through his nose. He said nothing else, but Sam could almost feel him seethe. It was hard to force normal when their brand of reality kept smacking them in the face.

"Okay," Sam repeated, rubbing a hand along his thigh. "So maybe it's not a demon… but it's killing people… so it's still evil."

"Yeah, well... death is evil," Dean grumbled pulling into a parking spot in front of the diner.

They sat for a moment, each struggling to voice thoughts too heavy to be carried by words. Finally, as Boston faded and Aerosmith's _Mama Kin _rattled out, Dean licked his lips and brought his head up.

_"It ain't easy, livin' like a gypsy. Tell ya honey how I feel. I've been dreamin', floatin' down the stream n' losin' touch with all that's real..."_

"Listen, Sam," he said. "You don't have to keep trying to convince me, okay? I'm in this with you. We'll figure it out. And we'll… do whatever we need to do when we find him. Or... it."

Sam worked his jaw. He knew Dean needed him to back down a bit, knew he was hanging on by his fingernails. He'd seen just that morning what happened if Dean dared to let go.

Dean looked over at him, shifting slightly in his seat. "So, we good?"

Sam nodded, then looked over at Dean, allowing his mouth to relax slightly. "Yeah."

_You're gonna have to let me save you, man..._

Reaching out was just not what they did; it wasn't their way. Sam curled his hands into loose fists in an effort to keeping them still. Dean nodded once, then looked back into the diner. He smiled when he saw Gwen's ponytail swish as she turned from one table and faced another.

"I'm not hungry, Dean," Sam said, watching him. "I'm going to head to the library." He jerked his head toward the large stone building to the west of the diner.

Dean shook his head. "We already know what the Latin word means, man. We gotta shake down the locals, find out who needs to, uh…"

"Abstain."

Shuddering, Dean nodded. "Right. That."

"There's something else, though… something driving this pattern."

"Other than the twisted logic of a psycho killer?"

"There's a weird order here," Sam said, holding up his hand, ticking his fingers down. "Pride first, then Greed and now… _Frenum_."

"Right. Lust or Gluttony," Dean sighed.

Sam chewed on his lower lip. "All I know is that it feels… familiar."

As he spoke, Dean saw Sam's eyes catch on someone entering the diner. He looked over his shoulder and saw Detective Cullen walk in, remove his hat, then smile at Gwen who sat him in a booth right in front of the Impala.

"Okay, SAT-boy, you go into research mode," Dean said, gripping the steering wheel, his ring clicking against the metal. "I'm gonna go to, uh…" He twisted in his seat, looking out of the rear window. "Get me some coffee at the _Been There, Drunk That_."

Sam followed his gaze. "Who thinks up this stuff?"

"Probably Stanford grads," Dean said, shutting off the engine.

"You're gonna leave her here?"

Dean glanced at Cullen, then dropped his eyes. "Draw less attention than if we pull away."

Sam shrugged his agreement, reached over the seat to retrieve his messenger bag and laptop, then stuffed John's journal with the information they'd gathered so far into the front pocket of the bag. They exited the car as one. Heading around the back of the car, they paused at the trunk and looked in either direction.

"Meet here in a couple hours?" Sam suggested.

"I'll find you before then," Dean said. "Not sure how much mocha I can stand."

Dean started to step out into the street and Sam stopped him with a word.

"Thanks."

Dean looked over at him, surprised. "For what?"

Sam shrugged. "For… being here. For sticking with me."

_One year to live… one year to know what life is really like, and you're here with me… you're sticking with me._

Dean blinked, then grinned, expertly masking the sudden, fierce ache in his heart, preventing it from settling in his eyes like a beacon. "Where else am I gonna go?"

_I can't breathe without you around, Sammy. _

He turned from Sam and jogged across the street quickly so that Sam didn't see how hard it was for him to swallow around the sudden lump in his throat.

www

There was something almost innate about the way Sam loved the smell of books. Not two seconds in the door of the Mercy District Library and Sam's nostrils were drinking up the scent of paper and ink sending him into an instant euphoric state. It had been a while since he'd stepped into a library. Too long. And while he'd never admit this to Dean's face, he was slightly relieved that his brother wasn't there. It left Sam alone to do some quality research… and process.

Sam shrugged his shoulder to shift the weight of his messenger bag, and made his way across the expansive entryway to the front desk. The vaulted ceiling enhanced the sound of his boots as they fell against the freshly-polished marble floors. For such a small town, Mercy had a very impressive library.

Sam leaned on the check-out desk, watching the librarian on duty, as her fingers flew across the keyboard in front of her. Sam turned an eager eye to the rows of literature calling to him in the adjacent rooms.

"Can I help you?" she asked, tapping a few more keys before lifting her eyes to his.

She was young, no older than Sam, with thin wire glasses fixed before large green eyes. Her face sloped inward toward her small mouth, which was now drawn smaller in anticipation of Sam's request. Sam's gaze went to the name plaque sitting in front of her computer.

"Uh, Becky, I was wondering if you could direct me to the catalogues."

She shook her head, pouting out what little lip she had.

"Yeah, sorry, the catalogue computers are down," she sighed deeply, like this was some kind of tragedy. It was so ridiculously emphasized that Sam couldn't tell if she really was sorry.

"You wouldn't happen to know where I could find a copy of _Psychomachia_ and Dante?"

She twisted a strand of hair about her finger, eyes darting over to the left as she thought about the question.

"Like the _Inferno_?" she asked.

Sam smiled thinly. "I could start with that. I'd really like his whole _Divine Comedy_."

When she returned his request with a simple blank stare, Sam dropped his head and tapped his knuckles against the oak counter.

"You know what? I don't mind looking around."

"Oh-okay," she stammered. "If you need any help…"

He could see the red burnishing her cheeks now.

"I'll ask," Sam replied, flashing a smile before making his way to the staircase for the second floor.

Sam found a table nestled into a corner and a nearby outlet for his computer. He wasted no time making the tiny space of the library his base of operations. His father's journal was open to the pages he'd been recording their clues in, and along side that was a yellow legal pad, open to a fresh page.

Some quick searching had located an anthology that contained _Psychomachia_. It was the only copy he'd been able to find. He was also able to locate two copies of Dante's _Inferno_. Either this library didn't carry the full _Divine Comedy_ or it had been checked out already. Sam had to go with what he could get, and for now he knew he'd have to deal without _Purgatorio_ or _Paradiso_.

_It's better than nothing_, he thought.

Plugging his headphones into his computer, he started up a song play list and settled into his old Stanford rhythm. He scanned the _Psychomachia_ first; with the music as a background, he was able to focus. Jess had always teased him about his ability to read with music. She needed the silence. Sam couldn't think in silence. Especially now. Sam didn't want to be left with wherever the silence took his thoughts. That, and a girl two rows over kept tapping her pencil against the table and clearing her nose.

_"…What if I wanted to break, laugh it all off in your face? What would you do? What if I fell to the floor, couldn't take this anymore? What would you do?"_

Despite the music and the open book before him, Sam thoughts still strayed to Dean. He hadn't really thought about what he was saying when he thanked Dean for staying around. He'd meant it genuinely, but a part of him now wished he hadn't said anything at all. It was spoken from his fears that morning, from watching Dean suffer in his own personal Hell… Sam was still shaken; he'd wanted Dean to know that even though he wished Dean had never made that deal, he was grateful to be alive…

_"…I know that it never goes away. All I feel, everything I'm not today. So I try and I try to make everything right. I don't feel like I'm doing it, it affects me…"_

Sam pushed the anthology away. _Psychomachia_, the Battle of Souls, wasn't exactly what he was looking for. It was a short piece about virtues battling vices. But it didn't focus on the traditional Seven Virtues—the ones that they were dealing with. Sam picked up one copy of the Inferno, cracking it open and laying it out.

"Abandon hope, all ye who enter here…" Sam grumbled, then cracked his neck.

_Through me you pass into the city of woe:  
Through me you pass into eternal pain:  
Through me among the people lost for aye._

"Cheery."

Sam hadn't much enjoyed this read the first time he'd gone through it for Lit class. And now after everything…

There was a diagram of the circles of Hell, and Sam saw that the second ring through the fifth ring were related to the Seven Deadly sins. He copied the rings into his notebook and started into the Cantos.

After moving through the poetry, line by line, Sam wasn't convinced that whatever was killing these people had anything to do with Dante's _Inferno_. The Lustful were stuck in an eternal whirlwind, while the Gluttons ate their own filth. The Greedy had something to do with boulders, but not on their back, and it had been Daniel Gibson under the mark of Pride that had been struck down that way.

Sam shoved away this book as well, rubbing at his eyes to alleviate the pressure building behind them. He'd gone in there simply wanting to skim Dante and had ended up getting sucked into the pages. The imagery…. suffering displayed on a scale that at times seemed overkill. _Divine Comedy_ was right. Not that Sam found any of this hilarious. A Stanford education affording him the knowledge that a comedy was simply not in the category of say a tragedy, but still, Sam found it to be a definite cosmic joke.

_"… Until you crash. Until you burn. Until you lie. Until you learn. Until you see  
Until you believe…Don't save me, don't save me, cuz I don't care…"_

His research wasn't producing anything usable and Sam wasn't exactly enjoying the reminders of what Hell held for its tenants. True, this was Hell through one man's eyes, but the pictures painted on the mind weren't pleasant ones.

_…save your ass for a change…_

Dante and Virgil. The characters triggered thoughts of saving Dean. Several times Virgil had to carry Dante through the Inferno. If they couldn't figure this out… Sam would follow Dean into the depths of Hell and lead him out, if that was what it took. But Sam wasn't going to lose Dean. Not to the Crossroads Demon. Or any other demon for that matter. It would never come down to Dean losing his soul for him. Sam wouldn't let it.

He needed to look for answers… just as soon as they could disconnect from the town of Mercy with a clear conscience.

_What am I missing?_

There was a light tap on Sam's shoulder. He'd been so engrossed in his thoughts that he hadn't detected another presence at his side. He jerked away, rolling his shoulder out from under the finger and turning around.

Becky was standing there, startled by his sudden movements. Sam's hands flew up to his ear buds and yanked them down.

"Sorry to startle you," she whispered.

Sam noted the gigantic volume under her arm.

"You wanted the _Divine Comedy_ right?"

Sam turned around completely in his chair. "Yeah, yeah… that would be great."

She held out the large book to him, the weight in her small hands looked like it would snap her wrist. Sam's hand darted out to catch the spine and he pulled it back onto the table.

"Are you like a Lit major?" Becky asked.

"Naw, just reading for, uh, personal gain," Sam replied.

The girl shifted her weight. "Dante… It's kind of like that movie… You ever see it? My ex wanted to start a club where the levels of Hell were different dance floors. Put that 'abandon hope' saying on the door like in the _Boondock Saints_."

Sam sighed, not entirely up for a discussion about pop culture. "Thanks for this," he said, turning back around and opening the book. This volume contained pictures. Now the suffering had an actual image to accompany it. _Great…_

"That particular volume," she continued. "We have to keep here in the library."

Sam nodded. He'd just make photocopies if he needed to. He hoped that his back turned to Becky would signal that he was ready to start reading, but her shadow remained. He waited for her to add something else.

"It's so weird…" Becky continued, and Sam's shoulders slumped forward in defeat. He only had so long before Dean got bored and came to find him.

"That copy is supposed to stay here, and then you come and ask for it, I can't find it… but some guy just walks in and gives it to me."

Sam's head snapped around his shoulder. "He still here?"

"He was wearing a red ball cap. He was just at the desk…"

Sam got to his feet and sprinted for the staircase, taking each stair two or four at a time. He burst into the main lobby, looking around for the guy with a red cap. He wasn't sure this was even his guy, but if he could catch him and talk to him…

Sam bolted out onto the front steps of the library, scanning the surrounding sidewalks and the drivers of the cars that passed. No one with a red cap…

Sam returned to his table, passing Becky in the stairwell. He noted the way that she pressed against the railing. He knew he had to look crazy to her.

"He leave a name?" Sam asked.

Becky shook her head and continued on her way without another word.

Sam slumped back down into his chair, moving past the vivid pictures in the Inferno, and opening to Purgatorio. The opening page held a drawing of a mountain, sectioned off into terraces. The Antepurgatory and Purgatory Proper. The souls trapped here were given a chance for redemption through temporary suffering.

Purgatory Proper was sectioned into the Seven Deadly Sins. Sam scoffed that love was the theme. Misdirected love, Deficient love, and Excessive love. If this was somehow related to the murders, then the killer probably thought they were giving the victims a chance at redemption by killing them this way.

Sam moved quickly through the Cantos, scanning as fast as he could for the specific sins. He was rewarded when he reached Canto X. The Proud were made to carry boulders on their backs...

"Yahtzee." Sam echoed his brother.

In Canto XIX, Sam found the Greedy, and his heart jumped with the realization that he'd found the pattern.

_Just as our eyes, attached to the worldly goods,  
Would never leave the earth to look above,  
So Justice, here, has forced them to the ground._

"Holy shit…" Sam breathed.

Father Simons' eyes were missing, filled with dirt. He'd been forced to look at the ground…

Sam grabbed up the book and his things, making his way for the copier.

www

_Thanks, he says_, Dean thought. _Dumbass kid friggin' __**thanks**__ me for sticking around. _

A girl with curly, dark hair turned from the counter holding a glass filled to the brim with a pale, caramel-colored beverage. He felt her gaze, lifting his eyes to meet her warm ones. Her mouth curled up in a smile. Dean simply nodded back at her, noticing that she took an immediate left and skirted the table he stood next to while he waited in a seemingly endless line, dropping her eyes from his.

Dean took a step forward in line, making a conscious effort to relax his jaw. He was aware that he looked ready to spit nails and having people give him a wide berth was counterproductive to his being in the land of world-class rock and lattes.

_Where the hell else am I gonna go?_ Dean's internal monologue refused to be quieted. _You're… dammit, Sam… you just don't get it, do you?_

He rubbed the heel of his hand against his suddenly aching forehead, tapping gingerly at the bruising that still framed his eye, then brought his head up. Weariness wore down the instinct to charm. He never told Sam about the nightmares, about seeing fire wrap around him, about reliving the moment of his ultimate failure night after night. He knew Sam was aware of the dreams, but he couldn't let him really see… couldn't let Sam know how low they pulled him every night. Sam needed to believe that he could handle it. He _needed_ Sam to believe… otherwise…

One step closer to the counter and Dean took a deep, heady breath of cocoa beans and cinnamon. He let his eyes roam past the people in line in front of him and scanned the large chalkboard behind the counter listing the many concoctions available and the eclectic collection of fliers and banners announcing local bands and open mic nights.

As he absorbed his surroundings, he saw the cashier's head bounce in rhythm to the beginning chords of the song filling the small coffee bar and turning the myriad of voices around him to a dull hum of background noise.

_"Everybody's worried about time, but I just keep that shit off my mind. People living on twenty-four hour clocks, but we're on a ride that never stops…" _

He was beginning to think he'd picked wrong; this place was more up Sam's alley. Taking another step forward, Dean flicked a tight smile at the slim, blonde woman who looked to be in her early thirties standing in line in front of him as she turned to glance behind him.

"Maxine," she called, paying no attention to Dean. "C'mere, sweetie, I saved you a place in line."

"You sure?" Maxine stepped past Dean, casting large brown eyes in his direction as she tucked a loose strand of black hair behind her ear.

Dean folded his lips down, shrugged, and motioned with his hand that of course it was fine if she stepped in front of him. It wasn't as if he'd been conscious for going on three hours now without coffee. It wasn't as if every moment he stood in this straight-out-of-One-Tree-Hill coffee shop was a waste of a moment he could be spending with his brother... or a good looking woman... or drinking a cup of freakin' _coffee_.

"…Gibson's murder. I mean, Beth, they have _nothing_ to go on," Maxine was saying in a hushed, secretive tone.

Dean instantly zoned in on their conversation. He raised his eyes to the chalkboard, studying the colorful words sightlessly, his ears perked, the fine hairs on the back of his neck raising slightly.

"Well, you ask me, he got into something," Beth commented as they all took another step forward in line.

Dean dropped his eyes from the board to watch the blonde tilt her head toward her taller friend and pitch her voice low.

"You know he had a drug problem," she whispered.

Maxine pulled her head back sharply with a barely-muffled gasp. "No!"

Beth nodded, then cocked her head sideways, listening, "Oh, I just love Jack Johnson, don't you?"

Dean rolled his eyes. _Jack Johnson? Seriously? What the— _

"Yeah, Billy took the girls and me to a concert couple weekends back," Maxine smiled.

The women paused to listen as the person in front of them in line placed his order.

_"But there is not enough time, there is no, no song I could sing and there is no combination of words I could say, but I will still tell you one thing, we're better together…" _

Dean swallowed, listening to the music despite himself. It always came back to time. Time and Sammy. He wasn't allowed to have both.

The women were now at the counter and placed their orders. As their drinks were being prepared, Beth turned back to Maxine and picked up right where she'd left off.

"It's such a shame, you know," Beth shook her head. "I mean I feel sorry for the kids. Anna pretty much checked out on Dan about two years ago."

"Where are they staying now, do you know?"

"With Anna's parents."

Maxine took her coffee and waited while the kid behind the counter finished filling Beth's cup with so much syrup and flavoring that Dean had to suppress a shudder.

"Not to speak ill of the dead," Maxine said, sipping her drink, "but did you see Dan with Sara Tyler at the PTA meeting last Friday?"

"Oh, Max, you know she wouldn't have acted that way if she hadn't been, y'know… hammered," Beth waved a hand at her friend, a wicked smile quirking up her thin, painted lips.

"Honey, when is she _not_ hammered these days…"

Beth took her coffee and the women turned in unison to step past Dean and head to a small table next to a window bench seat and continue their conversation. Dean watched them go, trying in vain to hear what any of that had to do with Daniel Gibson's wife.

"Dude," a voice called his attention. "You gonna order or what?"

"Uh," Dean looked back at the chalkboard. "Yeah, just gimme a coffee, man."

"What kind?"

"Black."

"No, I mean… what _kind_," the kid behind the counter rolled his eyes to a series of silver bags full of coffee beans on display to Dean's left. "Kona Blend, Breakfast Blend, House Blend, Espresso Roast, Caffe Verona, Asia Pacific, Latin America—"

Dean blinked and shook his head quickly. "Just gimme, uh… House Blend."

"Venti, Grande, or Tall?"

"Huh?" Dean pulled his eyebrows together, darting a quick look back over at the women who were laughing now.

"What _size_, Dude?"

"Oh, uh, large," Dean looked back at the kid, not missing the repeated eye-roll.

"So, Venti, then?"

"Whatever, Guenther, just make it hot and black, okay?"

Dean set a five dollar bill on the counter.

"It's $7.50, man," the kid protested, keeping his grip on the coffee.

_Do. Not. Kill. The. Locals. _Dean gritted his teeth, smiling tightly at the kid, and gave him the rest of the money. _Sammy, you had better be finding a shitload of information at that library because— _

"…always wondered about Daniel Gibson and Sara Tyler."

Dean sat down on the window seat, setting his House Blend beside him and picking up a discarded paper. As the women continued to talk, he scanned the paper blindly and sipped what turned out to be a rather good cup of coffee. _Better be for seven friggin' fifty._

"You think they were having an affair?" Maxine leaned forward, laying her hand on top of Beth's forearm. Dean watched from the corner of his eyes, wondering idly why women always seemed to need to touch when talking.

"Nah... Daniel was too into himself to care about anyone else—even Anna. I mean... he could have been the next mayor, if..." Beth nodded, as if saddened in some way by Daniel's death.

"Yeah."

"But they did seem... close."

Maxine chuckled. "Maybe he was her dealer..."

Beth waved at her, joining in her laughter. "Maybe she was his!"

Dean shook his head, sipping his coffee, slightly amazed at the undercurrent of secrets and lies, gossip and backstabbing that seemed to run beneath the Friendliest Town in Oklahoma. _Your romance with narcotics is laughable, dear Daniel, because you would rather indulge in a substance that will tear you apart from the inside out…_

That line from the ego-driven letter drifted through Dean's mind. The killer had known that Daniel had a drug problem, but apparently that wasn't as secret as Daniel had probably hoped. And what did Sara Tyler have to do with Daniel's sin? If anything?

"Speaking of Sara," Maxine sat back, cupping her hands around her coffee cup. "You still want to go up to her greenhouse tomorrow? Get some seeds? I know we were going to try to last weekend, but with Logan's soccer game, and Katherine's horse show…"

"Oh, I know," Beth nodded, commiserating with her friend's hectic schedule. "I do need to get some Zinnias, and I think it would probably go a long way to support her… I hear the greenhouse hasn't been doing so well."

"Yeah, that's what I heard, too," Maxine said, licking her lips and glancing down slightly demurely. Dean resisted the urge to curl his lip in annoyed disgust. He sensed what was coming. "You know… if we timed it just right, we could get her after a bottle or two…"

Beth shook her head, an amused smile hardening her features. "Haggle her when she's trashed?"

"Sure!" Maxine laughed. "We could get the seeds for a fourth of the price they're charging over at Larry's."

"You're probably right," Beth covered her mouth with her fingers, then shrugged. "I mean, seriously, if the woman can't abstain long enough to attend one PTA meeting—"

Dean physically jerked at her use of that word. "Son of a _bitch_," he breathed, straightening up quickly and looking over at Beth.

Beth and Maxine met his wide eyes with narrowed ones.

"I beg your pardon?" Beth snapped, her cool blue eyes taking in his still-bruised cheek and mouth parted in delighted shock.

Dean released a quick, startled laugh, his grin reaching his eyes as he grasped the significance of what he'd just connected. _Doesn't just have to be about sex… anything someone does too much of… _

Sam's words teased his memory. _Bastard picked Gluttony_, Dean realized with an odd sense of accomplishment and purpose.

"Sorry," he said, laughing again. "I, uh… just remembered… forgot to get my, uh, Mom flowers for her birthday."

Beth looked at Maxine, who blinked owlishly back at her.

"Think this greenhouse you were talking about would be a place to get a nice…"

"Arrangement?" Maxine offered when Dean circled his hand in the air, searching for the word.

"Yeah, right! Arrangement."

Beth shrugged. "I suppose… I mean Sara has more seedlings and trees than bouquets, but—"

"Where is it? This greenhouse?" Dean interrupted.

"Over on Poplar," Maxine answered. "Head out of town on Maine, turn right on Birch, left on Poplar. 'Bout ten miles. Can't miss it."

Dean stood, turning the full power of his grin on to Maxine. "Thanks," he said, working his jaw a bit when she dropped her eyes, blushing.

He set his empty coffee cup on the tray of dishes placed just inside the door and took a beat to enjoy their embarrassed, girlish giggles in the wake of his smile. _Still got it, Winchester_, he turned left and headed toward the library.

Dean jogged up the stone steps, grasped the over-sized iron handle and hauled the heavy oak door of the library back, all but charging through the opening. He bit the inside of his lip to stop himself from bellowing Sam's name the minute he breached the entrance and found himself surrounded by a myriad of books, card catalogues, and the quietly studious.

He darted past the check-out desk, head swiveling from one side to the other. _Where are you, Sasquatch…_ He caught the edge of a bookshelf with his fingertips, hauling himself up short, thinking he saw Sam out of the corner of his eyes. Wrong. He kept moving through the stacks, head bobbing, dodging patrons in search of books, lips moving silently with a _c'mon c'mon c'mon_…

_Where the hell is he? _Dean reached the end of the third row of books when he heard him.

"Yeah, thanks, I just need to make a couple more copies and I'll be done."

Dean pivoted, following the direction he'd heard his brother's voice. He saw Sam standing next to a copy machine, a large book balanced on his arm as he flipped pages, then laid it face-down on the glass surface. His laptop, bag, and John's journal were stacked on the bench next to him. Dean grinned. Sam looked completely at home.

He stepped up to him quickly and his motion brought Sam's head up. Sam grinned and turned to him.

"It's Gluttony," they said in unison.

www

"So, let me get this straight," Sam said as Dean turned the Impala down Poplar. "You overheard a couple of women gossiping, and now you think this Sara Tyler is the next victim."

"She's our Gluttony," Dean said with confidence.

Sam scoffed, a short laugh escaping his lips as he shook his head. "Unbelievable…"

"What?" Dean asked.

"Your ability to get information from women without even speaking to them."

Sam looked out the window through the dust the Impala was kicking up from the dirt road, taking in the farm houses spread out over huge several acre lots. He was relieved that this place was out of the way. They wouldn't have trouble looking around with the smaller and more spread out population. "So, tell me again why we're on our way to this greenhouse?"

"Well, you told me that Gluttony is doing too much of anything, right?"

"Yeah, and—"

"So, I think Sara had a drinking problem."

"Or, she had a glass a night and those women had nothing better to do than talk about other people."

"She could be linked to Daniel Gibson. They were saying that she knew him… sorta. They were acting… _close_… at Friday's PTA meeting."

Another huff of disbelief came from Sam. "I would just like more to go on than two bored women in a coffee shop. I mean, sure… maybe Daniel Gibson did know this Sara Tyler… but the word _Frenum_ was found with Father Simons, and I'm failing to see a link between Simons and Gibson."

"That's just because I haven't listened to the right woman yet."

Sam laughed. "I'm not touching that one."

"Well it's better than what you got," Dean acted offended. "Just because Gluttony follows Greed in that book. What about the fact that Pride is no where near those two sins in order?"

"I had to go with _something_," Sam defended himself.

Their conversation halted as Poplar dead-ended into a winding dirt driveway. Dean parked the Impala half-way up, deciding for the both of them that they were going to walk the rest of the way. Sam shoved the papers he'd copied from the library into the journal and followed.

The path sloped upward, ending at three long glass houses in a row. Each one contained an overabundance of greenery pressed into moisture laden windows. Just beyond the greenhouses was a two-story brick house.

"This is thin… at best…" Sam grumbled as they walked along. "We're gonna scare this poor woman."

Sam saw his brother's shoulders roll forward beneath his leather jacket. An audible sigh made its way to Sam's ears.

"Okay, doubting Thomas, just trust me on this, okay? Thought you were the one with all the faith…"

Sam halted, taking a moment to recover from that. For some reason, even though he knew Dean was saying it in jest, Sam felt his brother's words hit him like blows. He watched Dean move toward the first greenhouse without him, his back growing smaller with distance. Dean had become even more of a cynic these past few weeks, not that Sam could blame him. He just wasn't prepared for Dean's disparaging remarks to ever be directed at him like that.

_Thought you were the one with all the faith…_

It was almost like Dean resented him for that. Not like it was really a part of who Sam was now…

Sam let it drop, moving at a slight jog to catch up with Dean as he opened up the door on the first greenhouse. The door peeled back with a moist pop; the heat and dampness of the air so extreme, they were both sweating upon entry. The greenhouse was filled with seedling trees, vegetables, and potted flowers. The rich, earthy smell of the plants swept over them. They were able to see from the front door to the back, and it was clear that no one was in the first house.

The second was the same story. Dean had opened the door and stuck his head in momentarily, calling out for Sara before ducking back out again. As Dean's hand was on the third door, Sam decided to express his concern about their trespassing.

"Dean, we should just go up to the house, knock and--"

Before Sam could finish, Dean had the third door open. But unlike the first two, where the moisture rich air had carried with it the scent of vegetation, their nostrils were greeted this time with the ripe and sickening perfume of decay. It was so strong that Dean slammed the door shut, choking on the fumes, eyes burning as he turned to the side to breathe some fresh air. Sam was working hard not to gag, his throat burning with what had threatened to come up.

"Holy hell!" Dean wheezed, backing up. He collected himself, bringing his T-shirt up over his nose while locking eyes with Sam. "Thin, huh?"

"Ugh, God…" Sam exclaimed. "I'm sorry I was wrong."

Dean shook his head, and Sam could tell he was psyching himself up to go back in there.

"Dean, we have to--"

"I know, Sam!" Dean barked through the fabric pulled up over his nostrils. "Shit—that was—"

Dean shuddered, reaching for the handle again. He took in a few good gulps of air through the filter of his shirt and then ripped back the door.

Prepared for the stench that saturated the air around them, they were able to step inside this time. Their eyes adjusted to the dim light caused by the thicker brush and growth along the walls and ceiling, and their attention was pulled to the very center of the greenhouse.

Pale and wraithlike, a body was tied and suspended, naked, between two smaller fruit trees. It was visibly bloated and deformed from the heat, arms outspread and held cruelly in place by baling wire that had cut deep into the wrists over time. A dark stain ran over the translucent skin of its lips, down the chin, and created a dark river downward along the chest.

They approached cautiously, eyes fixed to the grotesque display laid out for them like macabre art. Sam started to feel sick again, his throat working to keep everything down. Dean hadn't realized he'd stopped breathing until his chest ached for air.

Glass shattered as Dean's boot connected with a bottle unaware. Both brothers jumped slightly, before their eyes took in what was littering the floor of the greenhouse. Wine bottles. Hundreds of them. They'd been so transfixed on the body, that they'd missed the complementary demonstration to the deceased.

Taking in the sea of glass, there was no doubt in Sam's mind that this was Sara Tyler. _Dean had been right…_

Sam moved forward, stepping around the bottles, being wary of each carefully placed footfall. He stopped and stood a few feet off of Sara, unable to tear his eyes away in appalled absorption.

"Shit…" Sam finally breathed, looking away in disgust. "There's something in her mouth."

"Get it out then," Dean coaxed from where he'd paused, unable to continue forward from the smell and the concentration of glass bottles flanking the right side, directly in his path.

"You get it out," Sam whispered back harshly.

"Don't be such a girl," Dean replied. "Just reach in there and pull it out. I can't get there from here."

"You're the oldest. It's your job," Sam returned with glare.

"You're closer, man," Dean pressed the back of his hand against his mouth. "It might be a clue."

"I _know_ it might be a clue," Sam snapped.

_This is ridiculous_.

"Let's just--"

"Find something to--"

"Exactly."

They backed out of the greenhouse slowly, both inhaling loudly once out in the open. Dean cast a look back at the greenhouse, reluctant to just leave her like that.

"Shouldn't we cover her, or something… cut her down?"

Sam shook his head, hating how calloused his next words sounded. "We disturb the scene too much and it will trigger the cops…"

Dean nodded, lips pressed tight, words of protest dying in the face of Sam's logic. They set out in step for the brick house, both unconsciously rubbing at their mouths, wanting to banish the lingering scent of death.

The back door to the house was wide open. In a simultaneous motion, they pulled out the thin black gloves Dean had procured from Shelly and pulled them on. They entered through the kitchen, noting the disarray of dishes and wine bottles on the countertops and strewn across the small table in the corner. The house was eerily quiet. No creaking, movement, or even the sound of the air-conditioner kicking on. Absolute silence… until their ears picked up on music playing faintly in the background.

Dean started through the kitchen toward the arched entranceway to the living room. He paused before he reached the stairs as a new scent hit his nose. Until then he hadn't been sure he'd be able to smell anything but rot for the next few weeks, but something else was breaking through his abused nasal passages.

"You smell that?" Dean asked.

Sam nodded, "Cinnamon."

"Find tongs or something. I'm gonna go kill that music."

Dean reached the top of the stairs, gloved hand on the railing, eyes scanning the empty hallway. Two doors bordered the stairway, one opened, one closed. There was a brief pause in the music and then the chords once again rubbed sideways across his ears, leading him to the opened door. It was Sara Tyler's office. A wide metal and glass desk sat directly across the room from him, the back of a computer facing him. A large bookcase and several hanging plants adorned either side of the room, and scattered on the desk and along the baseboards of the room were several empty wine bottles.

Dean frowned as he moved cautiously into the room. It looked as if Sara had gone on a serious drinking binge over the last several days; the bottles still had price tags on them, and as he got closer to the desk and the source of the music, he could see that the bottles on the desk each still had a bit of liquid inside of them. Dean crept around the edge of the desk.

_"The apple you're eating is simple and real. Water the flowers that grow at your heel, guiding your visions to heaven and heaven is in your mind…"_

Gloved finger trailing along the edge of the desk, Dean ran his eyes over the computer monitor, realizing that was where the music emanated from. He reached for the mouse, his gaze catching on the screen saver flashing pictures of flowers, children, and women Sara might have thought were her friends. Dean saw Maxine from the coffee house grinning cheekily out at him from the back of a pickup, a very much alive and happy-looking Sara Tyler sitting next to her. Dean slid the mouse over the mouse pad, erasing the screen saver and bringing up Sara's desktop.

He saw the link to her music and clicked the stop button. The complete silence in the room--in the house--was immediate. Dean unconsciously held his breath. He couldn't even hear Sam downstairs in the kitchen. It was as if the world was suddenly muted.

Looking once more around the room, he felt an odd, sad weight in his heart. Sara Tyler may have had a problem, but though Daniel Gibson and Father Simons may not have deserved to die in such a way, to Dean, her death just seemed... unfair. It appeared from his brief survey of her house that she lived quietly and alone, that she had at one time had friends and had drowned them all in wine, that she had once had a passion and had lost it when she lost herself somewhere along the way.

Dean glanced over his shoulder and peered out of the small window toward the row of greenhouses. Sara was still back there, hanging naked and alone. He swallowed. This bastard was playing judge and jury on these people's lives. Who was this freak to say that these sins were punishable by death? _Not just death_, Dean's thoughts felt loud in the silence of the house. _He's torturing them, humiliating them… practically stripping their humanity_.

Sam was right… demon or not, it was evil.

Backing away from the desk, his eyes hit an open day planner on the edge near the keyboard. Looking closer, he saw written in neat, block letters on every Friday afternoon at four p.m.: Father Simons, confession.

"Son of a bitch," Dean said softly in wonder. If the coffee-shop women were to be believed, then Sara Tyler was connected to both Daniel Gibson and now Father Simons. "How the hell—"

His sudden tangle of thoughts was halted by a dull thump from the room across the hall. Dean felt himself go still. Sara's body hadn't been discovered by anyone, and due to the level of decomposition, he knew she'd been dead for some time and had therefore assumed that the killer was long gone. The thump came once more and Dean reached into his back waistband for his .45.

With the reassuring weight of the gun in his grip, his arms leading his exit from the office, Dean stepped into the hall, glancing once down the stairs and catching sight of Sam exiting the kitchen with something in his hand. He saw Sam jerk to a stop at the bottom of the stairs, noting Dean's stance, his eyes darting in immediate worry. Dean shook his head once, pressing a finger to his lips, then held out a hand, indicating Sam should stay there. As he crept closer to the closed door, he saw out of the corner of his eyes that Sam had pulled his own gun.

_Atta boy…_

Dean reached for the door knob, twisting it slowly and silently from the latch. When the door was free, he used the barrel of the gun to push the door open further. The silence in the house was deafening. He could hear the blood rush in his ears as his heart sped up in an instinctive reaction to the unknown.

As he stepped into the room, he noticed once more the smell of cinnamon. It was stronger in this room, almost overpoweringly so. He checked the back of the bedroom door. Nothing. He moved around the unmade bed and saw another bottle of wine sitting on the nightstand and one on the floor, contents spilled on the beige carpet, staining it blood-red. From the looks of the twisted sheets and scattered possessions across the dresser, Sara had been taken by surprise in this room.

On the floor next to the spilled red wine, he saw a large, white feather.

"Okay, random," he muttered, canting his head to the side and bending over to pick up the feather.

As his fingers brushed the tip, he heard the thump once more coming from the closet directly across from him. Dean straightened quickly, feather tucked against his palm, and aimed the gun at the closet door. _Take it easy, Dean_, he cautioned himself, unnerved by the silence, the pounding of his heart, the image of Sara struggling against her assailant in this room before being stripped and suspended in her own greenhouse.

Using the barrel of the gun once more, Dean pushed open the accordion door of the closet. For one heartbeat nothing happened. Then with a screech like a banshee, a large gray and white Macaw barreled from the depths of the closet and right at Dean's head.

Dean threw his arms up to protect his face, his cry of surprise stifled by the bird's wings. He stumbled backwards, tripping over the edge of the bed, trying to swing at the tenacious bird. He felt his back hit the door jam of the bedroom and his curse was muffled by another inhuman screech from the bird.

"SAM!" He managed to bellow as he continued to back away. The edge of his boot heel tipped over the top of the stairway, and Dean dropped his arms from their protection of his face to flail quickly and find his balance.

Sam's strong arms caught him from behind, preventing his plummet backwards. His brother's forward motion set him back firmly on the landing at the top of the stairs and they ducked as the Macaw flew over their heads and down the stairs, coming to rest demurely on a perch in the living room. It pulled its right foot up, settling its feathers, then abruptly squawked, "Takes one to know one."

Dean, panting a bit, looked over at his brother, shaking his head. Sam blinked back at him, silently, then held up a pair of kitchen tongs. Dean held up the feather. Sam lifted an eyebrow.

"It was in the closet," Dean explained. "I think she was attacked in her bedroom."

"Wonder why it didn't kill the bird," Sam said, helping Dean straighten up. They tucked their guns back in their waistbands.

Shrugging, Dean led the way down the stairs. "Beats me. I'm sure as hell not above killing the stupid thing."

Dean made his way carefully through the living room, tossing the bird a dirty look. "Freak," he muttered.

The bird squawked again, "Takes one to know one."

Sam's chuckle followed Dean out of the house.

"Laugh it up, Psychic Boy," Dean tossed over his shoulder.

Sam stopped laughing, but his smile remained in place. "Not anymore," he commented, catching up to Dean and matching his stride. "No yellow-eyed demon, no visions."

"Whatever," Dean grumbled. "You're still a freak."

Sam's lips quirked and he stepped past Dean. "Takes one to know one."

Dean clipped him good-naturedly on the back of the head.

As they entered the third greenhouse, being careful to step in their original footprints, Dean found himself holding his breath against the smell he knew was waiting for them. He watched as Sam swallowed, steeling himself for what had to be done. Sam crouched slightly so that he could angle the kitchen tongs into Sara's mouth.

Dean hissed as Sara's head bobbed slightly from Sam's movement. "Easy, Sam."

"You're welcome to give it a try, man," Sam grumbled softly, as if talking too loud would disturb the woman hanging in front of them.

He was able to grasp the object and worked it slowly from her mouth, straightening up and turning to Dean. Dean held out his gloved hand and let Sam drop the object into his palm. It was a wine cork.

"Weird," Dean muttered. He glanced up at Sara, then hastily away. Her nakedness was disturbing as was the bloat of decay, and he couldn't get the image of Sara smiling out at him from the back of the pick-up truck out of his head. She hadn't deserved this.

"How do you think she…"

"What killed her, you mean?" Sam asked, studying the body with an almost analytical eye.

"Yeah."

Sam's eyes trailed over her purplish-stained hands, the scuff marks in the dirt beneath her bare feet, the dark stain on her chest and chin. Then he turned his head and took in the empty wine bottles strewn about the interior of the greenhouse. His eyes came to rest on the cork in Dean's still-open hand.

"I… I think she drowned, Dean."

Dean pulled his eyebrows together over the bridge of his nose, his head tipping slightly back to meet Sam's eyes. "Drowned? In what, wine?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah."

"Are you saying you think she literally drank herself to death?" Dean's voice was incredulous.

"Or someone forced her to," Sam said, glancing back at Sara's body.

He didn't miss his brother's shudder as Dean closed his fist around the cork in his hand.

"What the hell, Sam?"

Sam pressed the back of his hand against his mouth. The heat and smell inside the greenhouse was starting to overwhelm him again. He reached for the cork in Dean's hand, noting his brother's eyes as they flashed up at him. This one was getting to Dean.

Sam turned the cork around in his fingers. "_Industria_," he said.

"What?" Dean blinked.

"It's like… burned onto the cork."

Dean worked his jaw, his eyes on the cork, on Sam, on the wine bottles, on anything that wasn't Sara Tyler's sad, naked body tied between the trees.

"Let's get out of here," Dean muttered. "I can't… we need to call someone."

Sam nodded. He looked at Dean. His brother's jaw was hard, a muscle bouncing in a staccato rhythm of anger and confusion. Silently, Sam stuffed the wine cork into his pocket then reached out and turned Dean away from Sara's body. He was slightly surprised when Dean allowed himself to be moved so easily. He felt a pang of memory at Dean's pliant form slumping sideways in the bed this morning, his devastated whisper of _I'm going to burn, Sam…_

Retracing their footsteps, they made the journey back to the Impala in silence. Once there, Dean slid behind the wheel and watched while Sam leaned on the hood and called 911, reporting finding a body when they were out at the Tyler Greenhouse. He flipped the phone shut and climbed into the car.

"Gotta toss this phone," he said softly.

"I know." Dean started up the car, pulling away from the Tyler place without a backward glance. He pointed the Impala toward the motel at the edge of Mercy. "No sulfur, no ectoplasm… nothing overtly demonic…" Dean muttered.

"No physical evidence either," Sam pointed out. "Unless something shows up under lights or… hell, I don't know, fingerprint dusting."

"Sam," Dean glanced over at his brother.

"Yeah?"

"He's playing with us."

Sam looked over at him, surprised. "What?"

"Not _us_ as in you and me, exactly… but… us. Humanity," Dean tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

"So you _do_ think it's demonic," Sam pounced.

Dean just sighed. After a moment he spoke again. "She knew Father Simons."

"Sara Tyler did?"

"Yeah," Dean nodded. "Went to confession every Friday."

Sam frowned. "And if the Gossip Girls are right… she knew Daniel Gibson, too."

"Yep."

"Dean… Sara was killed days ago… maybe even before Daniel died," Sam said, chewing on his bottom lip.

"Apparently nobody cared enough to come by and check on her," Dean said bitterly.

"Not only that," Sam reached into his messenger bag for John's journal and pulled out the papers he'd copied at the library. "I've seen that before… that way it tied her up."

He started rifling through the papers as Dean drove silently.

"_Industria_," Dean finally muttered. "Means diligence, yeah?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah…"

"What's the opposite of… diligence?"

Sam pulled a paper free from the stack and brought his head up. "Uh… diligence is… like activity, so… Sloth." Sam started to scan the paper again, shaking his head slowly. "_Industria_ is another virtue Dean, and this… killer… is going to punish someone for Sloth… gonna make them…"

"What?" Dean pulled into a parking space in front of the motel, throwing the gear into park. "Gonna make them, _what_, Sam?"

Sam was studying the photocopied paper he'd pulled from his library stack with a look of honest horror. "Uh, Dean…"

Dean was chewing on his lower lip by this time. Sam's hesitation making him anxious, jumpy, wanting to move, to lash out, to fight something. "What?"

"You ever hear of Dante?"

"Dante? What, like the dude that directed _The Howling_?"

Sam shot a look over to his brother. "Dude. Seriously."

"What do you want from me, Sam? You get World Lit, I get movies." He returned Sam's look. "You just took a wine cork out of a dead woman's mouth and now you're asking me about friggin' _Dante_…"

"Dante's _Divine Comedy_, actually," Sam said, holding the photocopied paper out to Dean, who took it, studying the words with a frown. "Look at this picture."

"Person tied between two trees…"

"Exactly. And here, look at Pride."

"Like Daniel Gibson," Dean muttered.

"Exactly like him. Greed is the same as Father Simons. It's following the deaths in the Divine Comedy," Sam said, tapping the paper.

"Sam…"

"What? It fits!" Sam shoved his hands through his hair. "This one is smart, Dean. It had to have killed Sara… well, awhile ago, right? But it knew no one would look for her until it _wanted _someone to find her."

Dean looked up from the paper. He studied Sam's face silently for a moment. "Awful big risk, trusting the Keystone Cops to follow the clues… find Sara only after someone found Father Simons… find _him_ only after Daniel. I mean… you heard those guys. The cops've got _nothing_, Sam."

Sam pressed his lips together. "Maybe it… wasn't counting on the… cops."

Dean frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"Maybe it left the clues for someone like… us," Sam whispered thinking of the man in the red ball cap returning the book in the library just when he needed it.

Dean felt cold. He looked back down at the paper. _Only demons seemed to know you, seemed to get underneath your skin._ Sam was right: there was a pattern to the killings. More than that, there seemed to be a connection between the victims.

"Dean?"

_Sam was right about something else, too_, Dean thought. There was more evil in the world because of them. There were more beings out there influencing the evil in each of them. More out there hurting, and haunting. More out there destroying lives as his—_their_—life had been destroyed.

"Dean, you okay?"

Dean wanted to get this evil son of a bitch. He wanted to find it and pound it into the ground before he sent it back to Hell. He wanted it there waiting for him so that he could beat on it some more when they finally came to haul his sorry ass away from this fight, from this life.

"Hey, man, say something."

From his brother.

Dean looked over at Sam. "Guess we got us a lazy sinner to save, huh?"

He pulled his mouth into a shadow of his normal smile, the light of that motion not touching the darkness in his eyes.

www

a/n:

We're both crazy about music, so we kinda pulled out all the stops with this chapter. There will be more as the situations warrant, but for now, here's the play list for Wednesday:

Led Zeppelin: _D'yer Mak'er_

Boston: _Peace of Mind_

Aerosmith: _Mama Kin_

30 Seconds to Mars: _The Kill_

Staind: _Fray_ (Onari, you'd like this one…)

30 Seconds to Mars: _Savior_

Ziggy Marley: _Dragonfly_

Jack Johnson: _Better Together_

Three Dog Night: _Heaven Is In Your Mind_

Hope you're enjoying the ride – much more to come… stay tuned!


	4. Thursday: Sloth

**Disclaimer/Spoilers/Authors:** See Chapter 1.

a/n: A belated _**thank you**_ to our beta, Kelly.

We're **very sorry** for the delay; time and circumstance unfortunately don't always allow for luxuries like storytelling – but this time you can blame me (Gaelic) because I multi-tasked to finish writing my next episode for the VS. hides under desk

If you stick with us, we promise a full-on thrill ride of a story. This chapter is the threshold to _a lot_ that will be revealed over the next few "days" for the boys. After "today"… all hell breaks loose.

Thanks for reading and _especially_ for reviewing. Knowing that you all are enjoying this story makes the late nights, the plotting, and the scheming all very, _very_ worthwhile.

www

"Sloth, like rust, consumes faster than labor wears, while the used key is always bright."

-- Benjamin Franklin

I like the sound of my own voice  
I didn't give anyone else a choice  
An intellectual tortoise  
Racing with your bullet train

-- "All Because of You", U2

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Thursday: Sloth

Sam didn't remember setting an alarm. He didn't even remember going to bed, or caring enough to take the time to make sure he was up in the morning, but somehow the incessant bleating of the clock on the nightstand between the beds was puncturing through his ears and pulling him up from the depths of sleep. He cast out his arm, knocking his hand listlessly onto the snooze button, then took a moment to soak in the relief granted his ears.

He didn't open his eyes, simply reburied his head into the pillow, willing sleep to return and quickly. The setting of the alarm clock had been an obvious error on his part. Especially after the night he'd had researching until his eyes had grown so much like sandpaper that he thought his capillaries were going to burst.

He heard a movement to his right, between the two beds, and felt a light breath of air curl against his arm, which was now hanging off the bed. Sam wondered why Dean was up so early. Especially since Sam knew Dean couldn't have been in bed before midnight—hell, two a.m.—because Sam hadn't even gone to bed by then. He could remember _that_ even if he couldn't recall setting an alarm, or even when his brother had come back to the room…

"Dean?" Sam grunted into his pillow. _Go back to bed, you freak, and lay off the coffee! _

Sam heard papers being shuffled around, a few muted footfalls, then the sounds of their weapons duffel being sifted through.

He lifted his head, shifting to his elbows and pressing against his eyes with his fingers until pinpricks of light danced behind his lids. He then pulled his knees into his chest so he could maneuver his long legs and put his feet on the ground. He sat at the edge of the bed for a few minutes, massaging more sand granules out of his eyes, left over from the night before.

"Now who's gung-ho about this case?" Sam grumbled. "Why'd you set the alarm, Dean? What time did you get back?"

There was no answer, and Sam looked over at the table with bleary eyes where he'd last heard the movement. No one was there. The whole room was suddenly void of sound. Sam was alone.

"Dean?"

Sam's gaze snapped back to Dean's bed, all desire for sleep gone as he became conscious of the fact that Dean wasn't in his bed. Dean hadn't even _slept_ in his bed. The research Sam had been doing the night before was still laid out across Dean's tussled sheets and wadded up comforter.

Sam sensed another presence move behind him between the bed and the bathroom door, heard the groan of the floor under someone's shoes, saw a shadow cast against the morning light as someone passed in front of the window. Someone _not _Dean.

Sam suddenly startled awake, every muscle tense and the hair standing at attention on the back of his neck. He sat up in the bed, confused, sheets pooling around his waist, and tried to reorient. What he'd experienced had felt too real to have been a dream. As his eyes darted into every corner, picking apart every shadow, Sam thought he could still feel someone watching him.

He kicked off his blankets, heart hammering in his chest at the silence and lack of movement in the room. The light filtering in through the windows was brighter now, indicating that it was much later than when Sam had first awoken. _Had that even been… real? Had someone really been in the room? _

Real or not, one fact was clear: Dean was missing. It didn't even matter if Sam had been dreaming the first time, because at that moment he couldn't shake the heart-choking panic that had settled in.

He stumbled to his feet, crossing the space between the beds and lifting the papers on Dean's bed to feel the sheets. Cold. Dean hadn't come home after Sam had fallen asleep… which was when, again?

Sam fisted a hand in his hair, spinning again to search the room. He was still dressed in his jeans and T-shirt, but his boots were sitting next to the bed. He couldn't remember taking off his boots, or getting under the covers for that matter. He tried to remember Dean's last phone call to him. Had Dean said he'd be out for the night?

Sam pivoted and faced the open bathroom. Nothing. Pivot. The table. His research was stacked there, and Sam knew he hadn't put it there. He ran a hand through his long strands, trying to remain calm, before his eyes came to rest on his cell phone. He grabbed it up, dialing Dean. _C'mon, c'mon…_

After a few rings it went to voicemail.

"Dammit, Dean!" Sam hissed before shoving the phone in his jeans pocket.

Sam practically dived for his boots, pulling them on without tying the laces. He pulled a handgun from their small stash in the weapons duffel, tucking it in the back of his waistband and concealing it with his shirt. He reached for the door, tearing it open just as Dean was about to grab the handle from the other side, almost barreling into his brother's surprised face.

"Aw, you didn't have to greet me at the door," Dean said, sliding his confused expression quickly into a smile.

"Dean? You… what possessed you to—where the hell?!"

Dean tugged the corners of his mouth down into a frown. "Is that anyway to greet the hand that feeds you?" He then grabbed the brown paper bag out from under his arm and held it up with the drink carrier in the other. "I brought breakfast. Can I come in now? Or is there a password?"

_The password is my boot up your ass…_Sam grumbled in his head before shifting to the side so his brother could get into the room.

Sam shut the door after his brother had entered and sunk his shoulder into it, his eyes following Dean to the table. There was something up with Dean. Sam could see that his brother didn't—_couldn't_—stop moving. Dean set the food down, went over to the bed throwing off his jacket, then returned to the table and moved Sam's research to the side, setting out the food he'd brought like a buffet. He was moving too much for Sam, especially when Sam was still reeling from his experience that morning.

_So… he brings food and suddenly he's Teflon?_ Sam wasn't going to let Dean's absence go unanswered.

"You're a… lookin' good, Sam," Dean commented, pausing only long enough to shoot Sam a concerned look before grabbing a pastry and taking a huge mouthful. "You sleep okay?" Dean asked, before chasing the bite with a large gulp of coffee.

Sam looked down at his half-tucked in shirt, the unlaced boots, and the wrinkled jeans. He caught his reflection in the mirror above the dresser, his unruly hair sticking up in tufts, and his face imprinted from the sheets. Sam straightened his hair the best he could with his hand, eyes boring holes into Dean who was munching away.

"Did _I_ sleep okay?" Sam repeated Dean's question with exasperation.

His fear about what had happened earlier was slowly fading. Logic had him sliding toward thinking that everything had been a dream. He'd just imagined it. Everything except Dean missing sleep. Sam hadn't imagined the cold sheets and he definitely wasn't imagining the slow tremors in his brother's hands, or the way he couldn't stop moving.

"I think the question is did you sleep… at all?" Sam frowned.

Dean was sitting now, but still moving, tapping his fingers against his thigh rapidly to some rhythm in his mind. Sam wondered if he was tapping to the same beat of his caffeine-infused heart. Dean appeared to have heard Sam's question but shrugged and Sam knew he'd pursue some half-truth with his typical artfulness. Sam sighed inwardly, placing a mental bookmark on his question, knowing he was in for a long haul of Dean Winchester's famous bullshitting and dodging the truth.

"When I came in and found you last night, you were dead to the world," Dean teased. "Found you sprawled out across a bunch of papers. All that was missing was a river of drool."

Sam was somewhat put at ease knowing now why he couldn't remember going to bed that night. He tilted his head to the side, looking between the bed and the window where he'd felt someone watching… thought he saw a shadow... Dean's coming and going must have been confused in the sleep-induced fog that had coated Sam's mind.

Dean was up again, and Sam wanted to take him by the shoulders and force him down onto the chair so he'd stop moving for just two minutes and answer a damn question. If Dean thought 'when I came in' was going to satisfy Sam, he was wrong.

"So what did you do last night?" Sam asked, mustering the strength to keep from being overly frustrated. If Dean wanted to dance around this, Sam would just keep throwing out different questions. Sam would get his answer whether Dean liked it or not.

Sam picked up his own coffee, peeling back the lid and letting the aroma smack him in the nostrils like a shot of adrenaline. He needed this to keep up with Dean, who looked like he was already at least fifteen cups ahead of him. He took a mouthful, before snagging up a bagel and sitting on a chair at the table, watching Dean pace. If Sam wasn't so concerned about his brother, the scene might have actually been comical.

"I was doing my own kind of research," Dean beamed.

He leaned on the dresser and Sam wondered if maybe this would be Dean's final stop on his tour of the room. People on caffeine had to crash eventually. Sam searched his brother's face for any signs that the crash was soon. Dean's face was drawn and bruised, but his eyes were bright, coherent, and energetic. With no sleep and God knew how much coffee, Sam knew it wasn't if Dean crashed, it was when. And it would be ugly.

"You were doing research?" Sam asked with arched brow. He set his elbow on the table, resting his head on his opened hand. "You go to that bar down the street?"

Dean's mouth turned up in a sly grin. "There is more than one way to hustle information, Sammy." He brought more of the caffeine-rich liquid to his lips, and paused, something remembered flashing through his expression. "Oh, but, uh… we might want to avoid the diner for a while."

Sam lifted his head off his hands. "Why?" he asked, worried.

"Let's just say that I _may_ have flirted with a waitress who… _may_ have been married to a guy four times your size."

"Swell…" Sam sighed through his fingers as he rubbed at his mouth. _God, Dean, can you focus with one head for a while? At least until we get done with this case?_

Dean switched his weight from one leg to the other, trying hard to stay still. His skin was crawling, muscles twitched, eager to keep moving, and his heart was beating like he'd run a marathon. Dean didn't expect much less after how much coffee he'd thrown back over the past few hours. He didn't want Sam to pick up on it too much… but it already looked like Sam was onto him. His brother was trying hard to stay patient. Dean could tell by Sam's thin lips, the way he'd set his jaw, and the periodic sighs that left him.

Last night Dean had been able to focus for about fifteen whole minutes on research. It wasn't long after that he realized selective ADD had set in and he needed to get out of the room. He'd kept up with Sam through a few cell phone calls, but every time he'd started toward the hotel to sleep, he found himself back on the road and heading into town.

It had been a little after two a.m. when he'd slipped into the room unnoticed. He'd found Sam, asleep on his papers, his long limbs spread out across the bed. Dean had taken off Sam's boots, rotating his lanky body around until his head hit the pillow, and pulled the covers up over him.

All of this occurred while Sam remained unresponsive to the world. The kid was tired. Exhausted. And Dean understood. He felt the same weariness and ache in his joints and muscles, many of which were still trying to heal underneath the purplish tissue of his back.

It should have been so simple to slip into his own bed, shut down, and get the rest he needed, but staring at the covers, Dean had found he couldn't force himself to move toward them.

Dean dragged a hand down his face, pulling at his tired eyes. Sam was waiting for an explanation. Dean didn't see why it mattered so much; either way—sleeping or not—he wouldn't have gotten any rest.

"Hey, my version of research paid off," Dean defended himself. "I may have gotten us in trouble with one waitress' husband, but I bet I have more than you got last night."

"Oh?" Sam rose to the challenge.

"Ye of little faith," Dean smirked.

"Hey, I doubted your coffee house source." Sam held out a hand in surrender. "Never again, Dean. So where did this one come from? Gwen the pie goddess? Shelly the hunting blind mistress?"

Dean almost choked on the bolus of pastry he had crammed into one cheek. "Want some more piss and vinegar with your coffee, Sammy?"

Sam waved toward Dean, signaling him to continue.

"Okay, so, get this: Sara's greenhouse was a front for Daniel's drug habit," Dean announced.

Sam stopped his thin-lipped, skeptical look long enough to show genuine interest. Now that Dean had his brother's full attention, he continued with confidence, practically rolling in the glow of his accomplishment.

"In exchange, I guess the guy paid her really well… Well enough to keep her greenhouses from going under."

"How the hell did you find this out?" Sam drew his head back, his eyebrows up, his expression dancing between impressed and skeptical.

Dean's grin widened, the story of how he'd conned information burning at the tip of his tongue and sparkling in his eyes. "You forget, Sam, that I'm a Desert Storm vet. A few war stories and some beer will buy a lot of information down at the VFW."

If Sam's eyebrows could arch anymore, they would, but Sam had maxed out his_ I can't believe I'm related to you face._ "War stories?"

Dean lifted a shoulder, downing the last of his coffee and reached for another cup. "I've watched _Blackhawk Down._"

Sam dropped his head, a scoff accompanying the action.

"So, Sara's accountant," Dean continued, "was in Korea, and he was taking her death pretty hard—hard enough that it only took about three whiskey sours to get him to reveal that she was making sizable monthly deposits from our very own Daniel Gibson—and he wasn't taking any plants home."

"I can't believe you took advantage of a grieving man," Sam replied, then shook his head. "Even though… it _is _more than we had before…"

"Oh, I'm not finished."

Sam got up and looked at the food Dean had spread out on the table. He picked up one of the breakfast sandwiches and offered it to Dean, not satisfied with the pastry Dean had just eaten being the only thing to combat the caffeine. Dean held up a hand in protest, trying to continue on with his story.

"Eat something other than sugar and coffee, Dean," Sam said, offering the sandwich again.

Dean wrinkled his nose. "Not really hungry."

Sam blinked in disbelief.

"Would you just listen?" Dean asked, shoving the sandwich back.

He pushed away from the dresser and started to pace again. He needed to keep moving. For a moment he'd felt his energy drop into his legs, pulling the will to stay upright from his mind and the strength from his shoulders. He needed to stay awake. Ever since they'd gotten here, sleep had only brought him…

"Hell, I'm all ears, Dean," Sam shot back, dropping the sandwich back onto the table.

"Uh… where was I? Oh yeah! Okay, so this other guy sitting with me and the Korean War vet was also in Desert Storm, just not in the same place I was stationed."

"You weren't _stationed _anywhere, Dean. You were twelve."

"Dude, it's called _playing a role_… method acting or something... Besides, it was dark, they were drinking..."

"You should have just said you were in Iraq," Sam muttered.

Deflated, Dean frowned. "Didn't think… of that… Whatever." He shook his head, turning back to face Sam. "Back to the Desert Storm vet. He's hearing the Korean War dude talk about these sizable checks from Daniel to Sara, right, and he's reminded of his mom."

"Natural thought progression," Sam threw in with a roll of his eyes.

"The guy's mom had just paid Father Simons three grand to exorcise a demon from the guy's niece."

Sam opened his mouth to reply, then shut it quickly, eyes urging Dean to continue.

"So, our Desert Storm vet is _pissed_, right? He said that if his mom had just waited a week, then she wouldn't have had to have paid the guy at all—since he didn't actually _do_ anything. Guess his niece had like… epilepsy or something. Anyway, he told me about a candlelight vigil at the church last night, so I went to check it out."

"Why didn't you call me?" Sam frowned. _You don't have to do this on your own, Dean…_

"You were… busy." Dean motioned toward the bed, the bed stand, and then the table, all littered with papers. "Where was I?"

"Candlelight vigil for Father Fraudulence…"

"Right! So, I get there and the place is packed. Figgin' everyone in Mercy is there to mourn Father Simons. I was _this__ close_, Sam," Dean said as he held up his index finger and thumb, almost touching for emphasis. "This close to telling everyone what he really was."

"But you didn't," Sam interjected. _Please tell me you didn't…_

"'Course I didn't… under the radar, right? Anyway, it was unbelievable how many people worshiped the guy."

He paused, shaking his head in wonder, his hand snaking up to hesitantly rub the back of his neck.

"I'm sitting there… candles all around making everything really… surreal… and this woman next to me asks if I knew the good Father. So I tell her I knew him briefly and I was there to pay respects because of Sara Tyler. This woman suddenly looks like she's been sucking on a lemon for an hour."

Sam cocked his head to the side. "Who was it?"

Dean's grin returned before the reveal. "Anna Gibson. She said that she knew it was wrong to speak ill of the dead, but she was glad Sara Tyler was gone—she was nothing but trouble for her family and is probably the reason why Daniel was killed. I ask why Anna is there, and she says…" Dean paused for dramatic effect. "That Father Simons called her husband the morning Daniel was killed."

"No friggin' way," Sam breathed. Puzzle pieces began to fall together quickly in Sam's mind, joining to create whole picture.

"So_ I'm_ thinkin'," Dean continued. "Sara's greenhouse was a front for Daniel's drug habit, and in turn he paid her, which helped her finance her drinking habit, but she broke, told her priest, who just happened to be a money-grubbing scam artist, and he contacted the soon-to-be mayor for money."

Sam huffed in amazement. Dean grinned, basking in his own glory.

"I'm freakin' Columbo, Sam."

"Or Nancy Drew," Sam mumbled into his coffee. He ignored Dean's glare and kept rolling with the new information. "Where's Daniel's money coming from?"

"I don't know, but all this makes me think that we're dealing with a human psycho-killer, hell-bent on making this town pay for its dirty little secrets."

"Yeah… I'm not sure, man. We know how the victims are connected, but we still don't know why the person or thing chose them or who it'll choose next," Sam said. He went over to his notes, flipping through them. "Y'know… to really get this, Dean, you'd have to understand Dante…"

Dean held up a finger to stop Sam from starting into a literature tirade, went over to his jacket on the bed, and pulled out a book from the pocket. He held it up so Sam could read the title, before having a seat in the chair next to the small table.

"You bought _The Portable Dante?_" Sam asked. "Wait, you went to a bookstore, too?"

Dean nodded.

Sam studied Dean for a minute, but Dean just blinked back at him, blank-faced and innocent-eyed. Sam finally gave a short laugh and returned to looking through his notes. He found the page he needed and pulled it out.

"Okay, so we know that the virtues we found correspond with the next murder, right? We know that whoever is doing this is following Dante's _Purgatorio_, but not the same order… more like… just the punishment fitting the sin."

Dean flipped through the book, opening to a page that was similar to the one that Sam held in his hand. "This version has similar drawings to the one's you got from the library," Dean pointed out.

He showed Sam, grabbing the photocopied version and holding them side by side. He then set down the paper and started to leaf through the book again. "So… basically we get to know how these people are going to die… then show up too late to do anything about it. Not to sound overly pessimistic, but we just stumbled onto Sara, Sam. There's nothing guaranteeing that we're gonna be that lucky with another lead, and who's to say the last four aren't already gone? I mean… Sara was dead days before we found her."

Sam sighed, grabbing up the photocopy of the Slothful, whose punishment was to run without ceasing… _They were apparently on whatever Dean is on_. He dug into his messenger bag hanging on the back of the chair Dean sat in, pulled out a thumbtack and pinned the picture to the wall above the dresser next to Greed, Pride, and Gluttony. Their room was beginning to look rather macabre.

"The victims knew each other…" Sam said, studying the pictures. "You have any idea what kind of ingenuity and planning something like this has to take, not to mention strength. This thing or person has to know this town inside out…"

He paused, chewing on his bottom lip in thought. "I mean, people are being punished for the Seven Deadly Sins. It has to know all these secrets. Sins that wives and families don't even know. Sins that these people paid to keep secret. And this… whatever or whoever it is, knows about them. Not only that—it seem to know who is connected to whom."

Sam paused, thinking again. His mind working through what he knew and what Dean had told him. The virtues almost seemed to be the focal point. "They want someone to find these virtues… either so someone gets the message, or so that the town can stop the deaths by changing their ways…"

Dean had stopped listening to Sam somewhere around the word, 'ingenuity.' He'd flipped back past the _Purgatorio_ and into the _Inferno_, studying the pictures.

"Did you know that according to this, the center of Hell is ice?" Dean asked.

"Did you hear a word I said?" Sam asked. He then gave into Dean's curiosity. "And, yeah, I did. Something about it being as far away from the sun as you can get…"

Dean was studying something in the book, eyes pinned to a new page and Sam wasn't sure he'd heard him yet again.

"Dean?"

"Dude, Dante wrote the first zombie thriller," Dean joked. "There's a part in here about two guys frozen in ice. The one just eats the other's brains all day."

Sam resisted the urge to take away Dean's new 'toy.' Only his brother would use 'Dante' and 'zombie' in the same sentence.

Dean continued to read, suddenly engrossed, when his eyes caught on a passage. A man was so evil that before he died his soul was cast into Hell, buried in ice, while a demon walked around in his skin on Earth. Now that… Dean could believe. He shuddered, flipping backwards again. _Dante was one twisted son of a…_

Dean paused, fingers hovering above more artwork. His eyes were greeted by men and women crying out in a desert as fire fell down on them from above, their mouths twisted in anguish, screams falling on deaf ears.

_Your daddy was fun to play with…Took a while for the man to break, but boy was he a sight when you dug into the right places. The way he'd scream… until his fucking throat bled._

He kept moving through the pages, taking in the suffering, the pain and hopelessness. These were images from his dreams. They were reasons why he was filling his system with a steady stream of coffee, why he refused to stop moving. They all smashed into him in a wave of nausea and disorientation, stealing his ability to breathe, speeding up his heart in painful spurts. It was too much, too fast, and it caused him to rock unsteadily in his chair.

"Dean?"

Dean blinked, slamming the book shut and tossing it onto the table before pressing his fingers against his eyes. That was too close to home; it was what he'd fought so hard to avoid all night. It had all been returned to him in the instant he'd laid eyes on the drawings. Frustrated and teetering on the edge, Dean pushed to his feet again wanting nothing more than to run away from what had become a tortuous reminder of what awaited him.

_This wasn't part of the deal, bitch, _Dean thought. He wouldn't survive a year—eleven months—if these dreams continued in their vivid ferocity.

Once again, he was motion. He began to cross the room, away from Sam, away from Dante, rubbing his fingers across his lips. He felt his heart rock in his chest, beating against his ribs, slamming into the base of his throat. It rattled inside of him like a bird trapped in a cage, as if trying to break itself against the barriers he'd so carefully constructed.

Pulling in a breath, he scratched at his jaw line, then moved his hand to rub distractedly at the back of his head. The healing cut there was a harsh reminder of what dealing with the reality that Dante had imagined resulted in more times than he cared to remember. Without really being conscious of it, he resumed the pattern between Sam and the opposite end of the motel room, rotating when he reached either destination and headed back the other way.

Sam twisted sideways, one elbow braced on the table, the other on the back of the chair he sat in, watching with calculating eyes as Dean paced. His brother was moving like he was in a cage. Sam could see Dean's T-shirt stretch as the muscles in his shoulders coiled tighter with each step, the tremble in his fingers as a result of the near-overdose of caffeine, and the shadows lurking at the corners of his eyes growing darker.

_He's been gone for hours_, Sam thought, _and he looks like he's ready to climb the walls_.

"Dude," Sam said softly, his tone puzzled. "What's with you? I haven't seen you this edgy since… you were on lock-down in Providence." _Too bad we don't have any vibrating beds here… might keep him from running around Mercy without me…_

Rubbing the back of his neck as though trying to erase a mark there, Dean sighed, his back to Sam. "What if we just... left, Sam?" He shook his head. "Gave all this evidence to the police."

Sam slumped back in the chair, sighing. He rubbed his aching eyes, the grit from the night before still trapped at the edges of his lashes. He was getting so damn _tired_ of having this conversation. Tired of spending half of his time trying to convince Dean that this was _their kind _of evil... _God, Dean, why the hell can't you just __**believe**__ me?_ What was it about this hunt that made Dean doubt him?

Dean turned to face him, dropping his hand from his neck and spreading it out in a helpless, questioning gesture. "Sam, I... don't think this is something we should get caught up in, okay?"

Dean's thoughts bounced to the guys at the VFW, their sorrow over losing Sara… about Anna Gibson and the venom in her voice when she said Sara's name while at the same time mourning Father Simons and her husband. The case was too _real_… too close.

It was getting hard to breathe—the deeper they got, the heavier everything seemed. He wanted to move, to be gone, to get Sam out of there before something crazy happened. Before his own sins got the best of him…

"We should be staying under the radar, not doggin' a police investigation. I just—"

His eyes dropped to the copy of Dante sitting on the table near Sam's elbow, then danced quickly across the room, looking out of the curtained windows. He couldn't seem to keep them still. The more he tried, the more he felt ready to jump out of his skin.

Sam tilted his head in question. "What else did you do last night, Dean?"

Dean frowned, not meeting his eyes. "I told you."

"You were gone for like... twelve hours, man," Sam said, resting his forearms on his knees, gripping his hands tighter. "Didn't take you twelve hours to do all that."

"Yeah," Dean said, looking at him with shadowed eyes. "It did. You ever been to a candlelight vigil?" He shook he head, eyes shooting away again. "Things take for friggin' ever with the talking and the singing..." He stepped back over to the table and reached for the remaining coffee.

Sam shook his head, darting out a hand to cover the top of the cup and stop Dean. "Where else did you go?"

"Nowhere, Sam." Keeping his hand on the cup, Dean rolled is eyes. "I just… walked around some."

"Why don't you want to sleep, Dean?" Sam asked suddenly.

For one brief moment, Dean stilled. Everything stopped—his dancing fingers, darting eyes, rhythmic breaths. Everything except his heart. It hammered so loudly in his ears that he was sure Sam could hear it. Dropping his hand from the cup he turned away from Sam, facing the bed. Images of fire, heat, pain, loss—courtesy of Dante's vividly drawn landscape—shifted over his eyes once more, veiling the inviting sight of soft pillows and cool sheets.

"Not tired, Sam," Dean mumbled, resuming his tour of the small motel room, his hand once again going to the back of his neck.

"You're not tired," Sam scoffed, his tone disbelieving.

"Yeah." Dean paused at the opposite end of the room from Sam, then turned, tilting his head out at his brother, hands open, eyes annoyed. "Sometimes you're just _not tired_."

Sam pushed himself to his feet, a cold anger building low in his belly, fueled by the realization that Dean was hiding from him. That he was _lying_ to him. A stranger could see by the purple smudges under Dean's green eyes, the pale, drawn face framed by a forgotten scruff of beard, the set of his shoulders, the roll of his stride that Dean was skidding along the edge of total exhaustion.

And Sam wasn't a stranger. Most days he was closer to Dean than his brother's shadow and yet… yet there was always a part of himself that Dean held in check, that he kept back from Sam, that was only revealed when the dark stripped defenses and leveled the playing field. Even when he slept, Dean didn't rest. Sam knew that his sleep hadn't been peaceful since Wyoming. Since Cold Oak.

"You're dreaming about the deal. About what's gonna happen?" Sam asked, tucking his fingers into his jean pockets, squaring his shoulders, facing his brother, waiting. "That's why you won't sleep."

Dean slid his eyes to the side, shaking his head. His fingers tapped restlessly against his legs. "I don't know what you're talking about, Sam."

"You sure as hell do," Sam countered. "I know it tears you up at night—I've seen the nightmares, Dean. I've _stopped_ them."

Dean looked back at him, his jaw hard, his eyes hollow. Sam saw his words drop into his brother and fall through the emptiness in Dean's eyes until they crashed and broke against the concrete wall he had built around his heart. He'd seen this look before.

_I'm not alright… not even close… but neither are you, that much I know…_

When Dean stayed silent, Sam tried again. He felt like he was slowly chipping away at stone with the strength of a fingernail. "Dean, I…" he swallowed. "I know you went through hell that night."

Dean tipped his head, his eyes narrowing slightly, intent on Sam, waiting for his brother's next words.

"That night in Cold Oak," Sam clarified softly. The set of Dean's shoulders, the staccato ticking of the muscle in his brother's jaw warned him that he was making a hole. He just needed to be able to fill that hole with the right words. _Be careful_… "I know how you're feeling—"

"Stop it, Sam," Dean growled low, his voice rolling across the room with the power of a punch. "Just… stop it."

"Dean, you gotta… you need to talk about it, man," Sam pushed, stepping forward. "It's killing you. I've been watching it eat away at you for weeks now and—"

"This fuckin' case is what's eating away at me!" Dean deflected, pushing Sam away with angry words. _Too__close… he's getting too close…_ "Focusing on that… book, this pattern, who's next, why it's all happening… _that's_ eating away at me…"

Dean narrowed his eyes, his forehead folding to bury a line of anger between his brows. He could feel his muscle bunch as if his body belonged to someone else and he was simply an observer. He felt the rush of blood through his heart and into his head. He could feel his body _ticking_.

Sam felt an answering heat lick the edges of his patience. "Stop _fighting_ me about it, then!" He yelled, spreading his arms out and leaning forward. "God, Dean. People are _dying_, and we're the only ones that—"

"Oh, don't give me that _we're the only ones that can stop it _crap," Dean shook his head, pointing once to Sam. "This isn't like before, Sam!"

"What?" Sam pulled his head back, confused. They were facing each other, eight feet apart, their words shooting from them and bouncing against each other in the void.

"Sending these goddamn Hell Gate demons back to the pit isn't going to get me out of the deal," Dean snapped.

Sam took a breath. "You think that's what this hunt is about?"

Dean turned to the side, shaking his head. He held his right hand in his left, twisting the silver ring distractedly. "I think you're trying to do the same thing you did when you thought you were going to go… darkside."

"Oh yeah?" Sam dropped his shoulders, his eyes narrowing. "What's that?"

"The more people you saved, the less of a chance you had of turning evil," Dean looked over his shoulder at him. "Right?"

Sam felt the heat in his belly grow, an oddly familiar burn that settled at the base of his throat. He knew this feeling. He'd embraced it in Wyoming when he pulled the trigger over and over, ending Jake's life. Only this time, it was focused on his stubborn brother. Sam took a breath, working to quell the desire to lash out.

"Don't turn this around on me, Dean," he said. "This hunt isn't just about the Hell Gate demons. It's about saving this… town, these people from _a_ demon. A killer. It's about doing our _**job**_, man."

Dean shook his head, his eyes darting past Sam to the pictures pinned to the wall above the dresser. "This is just… it feels _wrong_, Sam. This job… it's _messing_ with us."

Sam thought about the presence he felt in the room that morning—before Dean had gotten back._ Gotta agree with you there..._ His face pulling together in concern, Sam unconsciously shifted his body forward, watching his brother.

Dean turned to the doorway that led to the bathroom and leaned a hand on the doorframe. "It's messing with me," he said so softly that if Sam hadn't been listening for it, he would have heard nothing more than a sigh.

Sam pulled his lower lip in, thinking. He dropped his eyes to the worn carpet, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose and ward off the ache building behind his eyes

_I'm gonna burn, Sam… they're waiting for me_…

Sam had to do something… _something_ to bring Dean back to him. To pin him down, stop him from bouncing through this hunt, stop him from running away even as he stood next to him.

"Dean," he started, feeling his brother tense even several feet away. The air in the room suddenly became tight, the space between them quickly filled with the heaviness of sacrifice. "I know it had to have been hard on you the night when I… I died."

Dean felt the muscles in his stomach tighten, felt his heart pound. He tightened his grip on the doorframe. _He's doing the only thing he knows how_, he told himself. _Go easy on him_... He knew how Sam felt right now. He'd been there, had gone through hatred, guilt, and forgiveness in thinking about his father's choice. He knew his brother felt betrayed about the deal he made to save his life. But there _was no way_ that Sam could know how that night felt.

"I know how it must've felt for you to have to see me... see that."

The words were innocent, the meaning sincere, but hearing them caused something inside of Dean to snap. He turned around so fast that Sam stepped back in surprise.

"Don't you say it! You _don't_!" Dean barked, pointing his finger at Sam, crossing the room with purposeful strides. "Don't you fuckin' say you know how it had to feel to watch you die! To _feel_ you die!"

Dean didn't stop until he was toe-to-toe with Sam, his angry eyes boring holes in Sam's face.

"Dean, I—" Sam tried again.

Dean fisted his hands in Sam's shirt, turning him, and with a heave that sounded like the cry of a wounded animal, shoved Sam against the wall next to the table.

"Stop it, Sam," Dean demanded. "_Stop_!"

Sam felt Dean's hands shaking against his chest, trembling with the effort to reign in his anger, his pain. Shaking from the copious amounts of caffeine he'd ingested in an effort to remain on his feet, to remain awake, to deny his dreams the power to take him down in to the dark. Sam reached up and wrapped his hands around Dean's fists, forcing them away.

"Let go," he demanded, surprised to hear the tremor in his voice.

Amazingly, Dean did as he was told. He backed away from Sam, rubbing his fingers across his mouth in a familiar gesture of helplessness. Dean shook his head, his eyes looking around the room, seeing nothing.

"You aren't allowed to say that you know how I felt, Sam," Dean said, his voice hard. "You can't say you know what I went through." He shifted his haunted eyes to meet Sam's briefly and then let them drop.

"Maybe I can't now," Sam retorted, his lips twitching. "But you sure as hell made sure that I'd be able to one day."

Dean's brows met in across the bridge of his nose. "What?!"

"You're such a hypocrite, Dean," Sam snarled. "You don't think I remember how messed up you were when you found out what Dad did? That he did it for you? That you didn't get a _choice_?" Sam's voice rose by increments, his body leaning toward Dean as his anger burned hot and bright with indignation. "What happened to _what's dead should stay dead_, huh? What about _**that**_little nugget, Dean?!"

"Fuck you, Sam!" Dean yelled, pushing him away. "You don't get it!"

"Why don't you tell me, then!" Sam yelled back, pushing against Dean harder than he'd intended.

Dean stumbled back, his legs hitting the bed. As he started to topple, Sam fisted his hands in Dean's T-shirt to keep him from falling and Dean reached up, grabbing his shirt once more, surging forward.

Fueled by pain and anger, Dean growled, slamming Sam against the wall once more. They faced each other, fists tangled in T-shirts, eyes raw.

"You want to know so bad?" Dean barked, his jaw so tight Sam was sure he was going to break his teeth. "You want to know what it felt like to walk in to that diner and see all those bodies, all that blood… and you're _nowhere_!"

Dean's voice broke. His fists trembled against Sam's chest. His jaw shook. "You want to know what it was like to look for you—again—and find _nothing_!"

Sam felt his heart drop, sinking into the lava that was his stomach, as Dean's eyes pooled with tears of memory.

"You want to know what it felt like to get to that town one second—one _second_—too late?!"

Sam swallowed, air leaking from him in a slow exhale of sorrow. He loosened his fists, pressing his hands flat on Dean's chest, smoothing the wrinkles in his brother's T-shirt with clumsy fingers. _I take it back…_ He didn't want to know. He didn't want to know any more than he already did, anymore than his own fears, his own imaginings, and Dean's nightmares had already shown him.

Dean dropped his hands and turned his back as if he knew that Sam was backing down and was unwilling to accept the apology Sam held at the back of his throat. Walking away with slow, measured steps to stand between the beds, Dean took a breath and Sam heard him pull the emotion back inside where he could control it.

"I carried you in that house... and laid you on that bed... because there was no way in _hell_ I was going to let anyone else touch you." Dean's voice was quieter now, the hard edges softening with confession. "I just... sat there. I watched you and you weren't just sleeping. You weren't breathing. You weren't moving. I've watched you sleep for years, Sam. And this was… I looked at you lying there and… I saw… my little brother. But you were… you were gone."

Sam felt the fire inside of him quench as his heart burned, bubbling up to fill his throat with a lump of emotion. He'd never heard Dean's voice like this when he was awake. His words carried the same haunted devastation Sam had heard the night before. Sam's eyes blurred and he blinked rapidly, realizing that they were tears. Looking away from Dean's stiff back, he swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand.

"You shouldn't have done it, Dean," Sam sniffed, knowing his brother wouldn't listen to him any better now than he had four weeks ago.

"I didn't have a choice, Sam," Dean finished softly.

"Yes, you did," Sam argued, his voice tight. "You did."

Dean looked down and Sam watched him shift his body into a familiar stance: Dean was preparing for a fight.

"Yeah, well. I'd do it again." He turned to face Sam and his exhausted eyes were dry, flat, steady. The fading bruising on the side of his face offset the paleness of his features. "I'd do it again in a second."

"Dean..." Sam whispered. When Dean simply stared back at him, Sam took a breath. "After we finish this job, I'm getting you out of that deal."

Dean's eyes shot over to him, incredulous. "What?"

"I'm not letting you burn, Dean," Sam stepped forward, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He consciously relaxed them, and felt them curl tight again of their own accord.

Dean blinked, his eyes widening with obvious surprise.

"I told you, man," Sam's tone was softer, watching Dean react to hearing what haunted his nights thrown back at him in his brother's voice. "I've seen what the nightmares do to you. I know you're scared—"

"I'm not scared of dying, Sam," Dean interrupted. He'd always been prepared to be the one to go first. He'd somehow always known he would live hard and die young. It wasn't dying he feared...

"No," Sam shook his head. "You're scared of going to Hell. Of going through what… what Dad did."

Air left Dean's lungs in an audible rush. He felt like Sam had hit him, as if Sam's words had the power to bow him with their weight. _If you could see your poor daddy, hear the sounds he makes 'cause he can't even scream._ He felt hot and cold at the same time. His chest was tight and his eyes burned. He trembled.

"I'm not gonna let that happen, Dean," Sam said, his voice stronger.

Dean was spinning. Desire for Sam to be right, for there truly to be a way out, was quickly extinguished by the knowledge that the deal was a binding contract—and Sam's life _depended_ on Dean's fulfilling his end.

He rubbed his aching forehead, pulling air in through his nose. "No, Sam…"

"You said it yourself, man," Sam stepped forward again, his words beginning to tumble over each other in their urgency to escape. "We've got work to do, right? This Deadly Sins demon, this town, Daniel Gibson, Father Simons, Sara Tyler—that's only part of the job." Sam folded his fingers down one at a time, ticking off the checklist in his mind that had to be handled before they could focus on the most important task. "We send this demon's ass back to Hell, then we figure out how to—"

"Sam," Dean barked, pinning his brother's eyes with his own, his breathing steadier, his body calming, combating the effects of the caffeine, the exhaustion, the strain of this hunt with the need to focus his brother, to keep Sam from doing something… something Dean might do. "For the last time. No."

Sam set his jaw. "What do you mean, _no_?"

"There's no _out of the deal _for me, man," Dean said.

The fire in Sam's belly flashed hot. "Yes. There. _Is_."

"Sammy," Dean shook his head. "This is it for me. This year. The sooner we _both_ deal with that, the easier it's going to be." _Nightmares not withstanding…_

"Easy?!" Sam yelled, watching as Dean jerked slightly with the impact of his denial. "You think it's _easy_ to wake up every morning and know that you're one day closer to _dying_?!"

"Sam—"

"How can you just… how can you _say_ that?" Sam stepped back, his eyes hot, his brows pulled to a tight line. "I _know_ it scares the hell out of you, man! I _know_ why you're not sleeping."

"Yeah, okay, it scares me, Sam!" Dean shot back. "Is that what you want to hear? If I think too long about this year being over, I can't breathe—happy now?!"

Dean reached both hands to cup the back of his head, his brow twisted with the ache that always accompanied this line of thinking. He dropped his hands, then pointed at Sam. "Dammit, I would do anything—_anything_—to save you! To give you a chance." He took a breath, dropping his arm as if it weighed a ton, feeling the muscle in his jaw bounce. "But that doesn't mean I'm… ready for what's going to happen, either."

Sam pressed his lips tight, his fists clenching and loosening in impotent frustration. _It's not fair_... He felt a rage building, fueled by Dean's words. He wanted to strike out, to hit something, to scream. To do something to try to control the frenzy of emotions that resulted from the complete inability to do _anything_ to save his brother...

He looked away from Dean, his eyes lighting on the paperback Dante Dean had left on the table. With a growl he turned, picked up the book, and threw it at his brother. Dean jerked sideways, the spine of the book missing his cheek by inches and smashing into the lamp behind him.

The room was plunged into semi-darkness, the only light filtering in through the gauzy curtains over the windows on either side of the door. Dean heard Sam breathing. He heard the shake as he breathed in, the whimper as he exhaled.

Dean swallowed. He'd known this was coming… had been avoiding it for a month… and he still hadn't been ready. They'd just kept moving, kept fighting, kept doing their job and Dean had hoped that he could put this off.

But this job—this hunt—dug deep inside both of them and Dean knew that not only was it not going to let them go until it was over, but it was going to turn them inside out if they weren't careful.

"Feel better?" Dean asked.

"I'm not going to let them take you, Dean."

In that moment, the quiet heat in his brother's voice scared Dean more than any Dante-induced images of fire and death. He crossed the room in three strides, surprised when Sam took two steps back. Pressing his advantage, he grabbed the front of Sam's T-shirt and shoved him. Sam's hips hit the table behind him and he would have toppled had it not been for Dean's grip.

"You listen to me," Dean spat. "I get out of this deal, you die. Just like that."

"I don't care!" Sam yelled, pushing at him.

"I do!" Dean fired back, not releasing him.

"Dean, please," Sam whispered, wrapping his long fingers around Dean's strong wrists. "Don't… don't give up on this. Don't _give in _to this…"

"Sam, it is what it is, man," Dean said. "We just… we have to deal with it."

"No," Sam shook his head. "I've seen enough in my lifetime to know that nothing is inevitable," he argued, his eyes pleading.

Dean ticked his head to the side, taking a step back, forcing Sam to let him go. "You sure didn't think that way when you thought you were going to go evil—"

"Exactly. Turns out I didn't—"

"—practically begged me to kill you, more than once, even after I told you—"

"—didn't happen and neither will this. I couldn't handle it—"

"—rather die."

Their voices had risen by increments as each worked to shout over the other. Finally, they stared at each other, silent, spent, both desperately trying to pull in breath, slow the angry beat of their hearts.

"Dean…" Sam tried, his voice strangled. "I don't want to do this without you. If you go… if we don't figure out a way out of this… I'll go, too."

"Don't say that, Sam," Dean said, sweat breaking out on his face even as his heart went cold. He knew Sam meant what he said. "You _can_ do this without me. You _have to_."

"Why?" Sam's voice was low. It shook with remnants of anger and frustration. "Why do I have to? Why do you have to be the one to sacrifice?!"

"Because it's my _job_!" Dean yelled.

"Well, then, you're _fired_!" Sam yelled back.

Dean blinked at him, surprised into silence. Sam swallowed, then suddenly, his lips quirked. Dean felt his fingers twitch. He remembered vividly what it was like to walk into that cabin, the taste of the Crossroads Demon still on his lips, and see Sam standing… _standing_. He remembered what it had felt like to wrap his arms around his brother and feel him breathing, feel him warm and alive.

He turned away from Sam, leaving him leaning heavily against the wall. This was all too much, too heavy. He needed an out, a way around this subject, a way to distract Sam from the idea that he could help Dean escape his fate… His eye hit the broken light between the beds, pieces of glass scattered on the nightstand, around the alarm clock and on top of the copy of Dante that had started this whole thing.

His thoughts bounced from memory of how the Crossroads Demon tasted like graveyard dirt—which, he had actually tasted before—to the conversation with the Korean war vet and his recollection of loss, to Sam's emphatic denial that Dean would ever reach the center of Hell and burn in the icy fires that waited for him there. He stared at the book, silently cursing its power to weaken defenses twenty-four years in the making.

He tilted his head. _That book_...

"Why would a demon pick a book written by some guy almost a thousand years ago?" Dean suddenly wondered aloud.

"Huh?"

Dean picked up the paperback, shaking off the glass from the broken lightbulb and flipped through the pages, thinking. "Why would a _demon_ even care if people are sinning?"

"Don't change the subject, Dean," Sam pushed away from the wall, his stance slightly unsteady in the wake of the emotions that had just been expelled and were still wafting around him.

"I mean… wouldn't it _want_ people to commit these sins?" He turned to Sam, a true look of confusion on his face. He held the book out, but Sam didn't move. "What does it gain by—"

"What? Torturing them? Humiliating them? Exposing their deepest secrets to people who had no idea while they were alive?" Sam pointed out. "Are you kidding me? This thing's totally getting off on what's going on around here."

Dean dropped his arm, the book still in his hand. "I don't know, man, I mean… this whole thing is really… _complicated_. People are complicated. Demons—"

"Create elaborate scenarios to pull a group of special kids together and get them to fight until there's only one standing," Sam said, bitterness heavy in his tone.

Dean was quiet.

"The police don't have squat, Dean."

Dean looked at the pile of research he'd moved from Sam's bed to his own early that morning so that he could maneuver Sam into bed.

"We give them our evidence and… hell, they'd probably arrest us to just have something on the books. We know how to be invisible," Sam continued. "I mean… Agent Hendrickson only caught us because we let him."

"Yeah, I know." Dean pulled in his bottom lip.

"We can't keep fighting each other on this, man," Sam sighed. "We can't hunt like this. And I know you can't walk away. Not now."

Dean sighed. "Yeah, but… that's what gets me, Sam. I mean some guy—or, okay, whatever _demon_—is walking around… playing judge and jury on these people's lives and then just dishes out the punishment according to _this_?" Dean held out the book.

Sam took it from him and stepped back as Dean moved toward the table and picked up the half-cup of coffee. He swallowed the rest in a gulp, grimacing at the bitter aftertaste. The coffee was lukewarm and tasted nasty, but he needed another shot of caffeine. He needed to keep moving forward, keep alert, keep awake. He didn't know what would happen if he stopped.

"You're right, Sam," he said, his back to his brother, his eyes on the pictures Sam had pinned to the wall. "I can't walk away." _No matter how much I want to... No matter how much __**we**__ need to…_ "Nobody has the right to punish like that. I mean, hell," he turned slightly, not quite looking at Sam. "Not even God does that." He set the coffee down, his eyes vacant. "Far as I'm concerned, God doesn't do much of anything these days."

"That's not true, Dean," Sam stepped over to him.

"Oh, yeah?" Dean looked up. "You still pray every day?"

"Yeah," Sam nodded. "I, uh… do." _Out of habit more than anything…_

"You pray the day Jake… killed you?"

Sam stilled. He saw the challenge in Dean's eyes, knew what his brother was leading up to. "Yeah," he said softly. "I did."

"Didn't do you much good, did it?" Dean's smile was cold.

"Dean… I don't pray to… get what I want," Sam tried to explain. "I just… ask for help, I guess."

"Well, I'd say that was a big fat _no_ to your request," Dean shook his head. "Sara Tyler went to confession every Friday—she was still tortured to death. Hell, Father Simons was a goddamn _priest_…"

"Faith isn't a get-out-of-jail-free card, Dean," Sam said, frowning. "God can't get directly involved. It would be… well, cheating. That's why there are angels."

"Angels," Dean scoffed, shaking his head. "Thought we covered that back in Providence."

"Just because you've never seen something doesn't mean it doesn't exist," Sam argued. "Most of the people in this world have never seen a demon and we know _they_ exist."

"See? Right there," Dean stepped forward. "Demon's sure don't give a damn about getting directly involved."

"Well, yeah," Sam shrugged. "'Cause they're… demons."

Dean rubbed his forehead. "This conversation is giving me a headache."

"Maybe you should eat something else," Sam tried, glancing at the table still laden with now-cold food.

Shaking his head, Dean crossed to his bag and dug out a bottle of ibuprofen. Swallowing two, he turned back to Sam, his eyes on the book in Sam's hands. Sam seemed to notice and tossed it on the table.

"Dean," Sam's voice was a plea. "I'm not letting this go."

"Nah, I know," Dean sighed. "We just have to figure out who—"

"That's not what I meant," Sam looked at him. "I'm getting you out of this deal… one way or another."

"You aren't dying for me, Sam," Dean stated, his tone a clear _end of discussion_.

Sam clenched his jaw. _You still pray every day_… He did pray, but lately it had all been questions and demands. Dean had saved him and doomed him in one single selfless act. _How am I supposed to live with that?_

"Sam?"

Sam just shook his head, looking away. _It's not fair_… They were the good guys in this story. They did everything they were supposed to do in the fight against evil. For twenty-four years they struggled and lost, survived and persevered. And all they had to show for it was one soul saved after a year of torment, one soul doomed to an eternity of torture, and one soul struggling to not fall over the edge.

"Nobody's dying," Sam finally said, his tone a mirror of Dean's. His eyes were hard. "Not you, not me, and… if we do this right… nobody else in Mercy."

They regarded each other silently for a moment in the dimly lit room, weighing the conviction each saw in the other's eyes. Sam felt the unspoken words, the unresolved tension swirl around them. He knew that as long as the Crossroads Demon held the contract on Dean's soul, this discussion would not be over. But he also knew that he had nothing in this moment to convince Dean, to get him to believe in something… believe in _Sam_.

Believe that there was hope for him.

Finally, Dean scratched at the cut on the back of his head. He closed his eyes briefly. _Focus, Dean_… This wasn't going to go away. No matter how many doors he stood outside of, or how many showers he retreated into, Sam wasn't going let this go. And a small part of Dean didn't want him to.

"Well…" Dean looked over at the pattern of evidence Sam had laid out the night before. "The only thing we _do_ know is that someone else will either die or be found dead today."

"Unless we find them first," Sam pointed out. "The last clue was Diligence."

"Right," Dean said, picking up the St. Patrick's pendant from the table and sitting on the edge of the bed. He rolled the pendant over his fingers like a coin. "Well… so far, all of the victims have been connected… really bizarrely, but connected."

Sam sat on the chair opposite him, watching Dean's hand.

"I know we found Daniel first, but…" Dean frowned. "Something tells me that Father Simons is somehow key to this whole Mercy killing."

"Or you just don't like him," Sam muttered, his eyes on the pendant.

"Well, yeah, I mean, he was a rat bastard… but I still think it's weird that both Daniel and Sara were connected to him." He shrugged, "And each other, I guess… which leaves us with a big steaming pile of nothing."

"Oh my God!" Sam said suddenly, straightening as if hit with a bolt of electricity. "Dude… we're so… _blind_!"

"We are?" Dean's brows pulled together.

"Yeah! I mean… it's… holy _crap_!"

"You mind sharing with the class, there, Sam?"

Sam ran his hand through his hair. "The clues aren't just for the next sin—they're for the next victim. Like… _who_ they are!"

"How do you figure?" Dean frowned, moving the pendant along his fingers, his leg bouncing in an unconscious rhythm.

"St. Patrick wrote a rite to cast out demons," Sam started.

"Huh?" Dean lifted an eyebrow. "I thought he was the dude that… chased all the snakes out of Ireland."

"Well, that's… forget it," Sam waved a hand at him, crossing over to the pile of papers on the bed next to Dean. "A rite—one like we've read at every single friggin' exorcism for the last four weeks… Here, he wrote that." He handed Dean a paper.

Dean took the paper from him, palming the pendant. He scanned the Latin rite, then looked up at Sam.

"The pendant was under Daniel Gibson," he said slowly, "and it led us to Father Simons—"

"Who was running a scam about exorcising demons," Sam finished his eyes lighting up with possibility.

"So what about the video tape?"

Sam pouted out his lips in thought, then grabbed up the tape, crouched in front of the television set, and punched the tape into the VCR. "Let's find out."

Sam rewound and fast forwarded around the distorted area they'd found, watching the people, the background, Father Simons, looking for something to jump out at him. He repeated the tape several times over, then finally paused just before the place where _frenum _was burned into the video.

"There," Sam said, tapping the television screen with his finger. Father Simons was paused in mid-walk back to his pulpit. Sam's finger was resting on a sign behind him that read "Fruit of the Spirit." On both sides of the sign were two plastic-looking trees. Father Simons was posed just right between them, arms outstretched in emphasis of his current point.

"You think?" he asked Dean, glancing over his shoulder to see his brother's reaction.

"Seriously?" Dean recoiled a little, his face twisted in skepticism. "That's like playing the Wizard of OZ to Pink Floyd's _Dark Side of the Moon. _It works because it is what you are looking for. Vague and convenient coincidences."

Sam sighed. "Okay, agreed. I could be seeing exactly what I'm looking for, but… come on, Dean! He just _happens_ to be spreading his arms between two trees and the next victim was hung between two trees…"

"Think we can get a copy of Oz? I've got Floyd out in the car..."

"Dean."

"What? Okay, fine," Dean surrendered, waving to the screen. "So, our demon is leaving us _two_ bread crumb trails with these weirdo clues. We know what sin… and _maybe_, we kinda know who the next victim will be… _kinda_ if we were freakin' psychic, but I'll go with it… So, with Sara…"

"We have a wine cork…" Sam said.

"I swear to God I would take on a pair of Wendigos over this case," Dean sighed, rubbing again at the back of his neck. "Yes, we have a cork. So our next victim will be a… lush? We've kind of already been there and done that."

Sam pushed up off his knees and stood, going over to retrieve the cork. He turned it over in his open palm with his fingers. There was a stamp on one end, and Sam traced it slowly, thinking.

"Okay, so… maybe it's not a description of the victim so much as the location…" He thought out loud, closing his hand around the cork and going for his laptop. He flipped it open, a low hum growing as it whirred to life.

"What… like a winery?" Dean asked.

"Maybe…" Sam said, waiting for the computer to warm up.

He brought up the internet from the waning wi-fi signal of the motel. He found that if he triangulated the computer in just the right way, he could at least get something. The joys of cheap motel wi-fi were limitless… if you had limitless patience.

Sam typed in the name on the cork stamp and saw that there was a winery about twenty miles outside of town. He rubbed at his mouth, eyes going to his brother.

"Guthrie, Oklahoma… Moonstone Winery. It's not far from here, Dean…"

Dean shook his head, disbelief present in the way he shrugged up the corner of his mouth and gave a short, forceful breath through his nose. "If you're right about this…"

"I know…" Sam started. "Then it… _wants_ us to know." Sam let out a long sigh, his shoulders sagging. He raised his eyes above the screen of the lap top to Dean, his face conveying the prominent thought currently on his mind. _We doing this or what?_

Dean's gaze slid between the television, paused on Father Simons, and the pendant in his hand. It was right there in front of them; if they were right about this, and in the face of what they now knew, there was no was to just ignore it, then they had to do this. There was one question that tugged at Dean, lending extra weight to his body, keeping him momentarily still, silent: Would they be able to do anything, or would they just find another corpse?

After a beat, he looked up from the pendant and met Sam's questioning eyes. "What the hell? Let's go check it out," Dean said. "You want to grab a shower first?" He smirked at Sam's disheveled appearance.

Sam stood, frowning, and tucked his shirt in quickly. "No," he said. "I'll grab one when we get back." He knelt quickly to tie his boots. "What about you?"

"I'm good," Dean shrugged. "But we're stopping for coffee on the way."

Sam didn't reward that with a response, just shook his head before grabbing the Impala keys. He was pretty sure that if Dean kept this up, then they really wouldn't have to worry about the deal. Dean was going to blow out his heart and his adrenals before the year was up.

Sam waited until Dean was bending down to grab his jacket before he tossed the keys at him. Dean didn't look up, stuck in mid-motion of retrieving his jacket, but he still caught them one handed.

"You're not completely out of it," Sam smirked.

Dean grinned as he made his way to the door. "Reflexes like a cougar, Sam."

His foot caught on the leg of the chair Sam had been sitting in, and he tripped.

"Reflexes like somethin'," Sam teased, opening the door for his weary brother.

They stepped out into the crisp air, Sam taking it in for the first time that day and enjoying the way it ran around in his lungs, re-energizing him. He looked back into the small, poorly-lit room they'd just come from. The range of discussion that had occurred seemed to hang thick in the air. The door shut and Sam took in another long drag of fresh air, exhaling the morning's events that had swelled, almost unbearably, inside of him.

They weren't five steps out the door, when Dean sped up to a light jog toward a man in a gray custodial suit. Sam followed, unaware that Dean had been making friends with the motel staff.

"Bob, hey—"Dean said, approaching with one hand clapped to the back of his neck.

Sam watched the man squint, trying to recognize Dean, then the lines in his face softened. A smile of kind acknowledgment crossed Bob's lips.

"What can I help you with, sir?" Bob chirped.

"Lightbulb," Dean said with a wincing smile.

"Lightbulb? Got one burnt out?" Bob looked back and forth between the two brothers, regarding them with gentle eyes. "I can replace it, no problem."

"Yeah, we were, uh, messing around, broke the one between the beds."

Bob lifted a brow, then grinned politely at Sam.

Sam squirmed and bumped Dean's shoulder. Dean's eyes went wide with realization, which he quickly tried to conceal.

"We were, uh… throwing a football around, man…" Dean laughed nervously. "Broke the bulb, not the lamp. Actually, if you just give me a new one, I'll fix it myself."

_Smooth Dean... _Sam thought, trying to keep a straight face.

"Not a problem, I'll get to it."

Dean remembered the condition of their room. The pictures tacked to the walls, their weapon's bag sitting open... It was the whole reason they always had a _Do Not Disturb_ sign on the door to steer away housekeeping.

"Nah, it's okay… let me fix it…" Dean implored. "Feel bad making you clean up."

Bob nodded, turning down the hall and stopping a few doors down to unlock the supply room. He brought a bulb back to Dean.

"You two take care, now. Let me know if you need anything else," Bob smiled, handing the bulb off.

Dean stared at the lightbulb after Bob left, blinking with a blank expression. _What the hell am I gonna do with this now? _

Sam nudged him again, trying to get him to move toward the Impala. Dean finally shuffled forward, thought about shoving the lightbulb in his jacket, stuffed it in and then thought twice about that action. Sam simply strode beside his brother in silent amusement.

"Nice guy," Dean said when he pulled open the driver's side door. He set the bulb in the back seat and then looked up and saw Sam shaking his head.

"Messing around…" Sam grumbled. "You couldn't have asked for the lightbulb when we got back?"

"Hey, I just saw him and thought of it," Dean gave him a look. "What do you want from me?"

Sam looked out of the passenger window as Dean started the engine. "Dude, that was officially the last decision you get to make today. Leave the thinking to someone who isn't functioning on a blood supply composed of coffee."

www

Forced to bypass Mercy's only diner because of Dean's flirtatious antics the previous night, they pulled through a fast-food drive-thru on the way out of town. Sam snagged the large coffee as it was handed through the window, holding it ransom until Dean grudgingly consumed one of the four hamburgers they'd ordered.

Grumbling about pain-in-the-ass little brothers while gulping down the steaming beverage, Dean had to admit that he did feel a little better with more food in his stomach. So much so in fact that he decided to eat another of the hamburger before Sam inhaled the rest.

The drive to Guthrie took less than thirty minutes, but the fresh air, music, and food did wonders for both of them. Remnants of the torment both were experiencing because of forces beyond their control skittered to the edges of their consciousness as they focused on the task at hand.

Dean reached over and turned down Led Zeppelin's _Communication Breakdown_, as they drew closer to Moonstone Winery. The flashing red lights from the emergency vehicles and police cars was not a good sign. Sam slid lower in his seat, shoulders drooping as soon as his eyes picked up on the red strobe in the distance, flickering in and out; he felt like it was laughing at them.

Dean cast a sideways glance at Sam, knowing before either of them said anything that for one, they'd both been right, but never-the-less, they were too late yet again. And, to make matters worse, they were once again faced with sharing a crime scene with the police. The church had been too close for Dean's comfort, but he could see by the way Sam's eyes were fixed on the factory in front of them with stone-like determination, that they were going in there.

Dean parked the car toward the back of the large lot, and they exchanged knowing glances before ambling toward the growing crowd near the front entrance of the factory, shoving their hands into their jean pockets and trying to look as casual as possible. Dean had checked the time in his cell quickly, thinking that if worst came to worst, they could claim coming in on shift change.

They stopped at the edge of the crowd just as the two metal doors everyone was congregating around slammed back against the side of the building. A body bag was being rolled out and Sam tilted his head, confused by the shape hidden beneath the cloth. There wasn't much to it, and he suddenly got a sick feeling at the base of his stomach. _Is that a __**whole**__ person?_

Dean tipped his head to the right and Sam nodded his understanding. Without a word, they split off in separate directions, starting to question those in the crowd.

Dean found a girl slightly separated from the group with long, jet-black hair and large brown eyes. Holding her arms and rubbing them up and down, she looked like she was trying hard to stop crying—and failing miserably as a few more tears slipped when she sucked in a hitched breath.

Dean approached her, making sure she saw him coming so he didn't startle her.

"You okay?" Dean asked.

She wiped at her face with the back of her sleeve, looking almost annoyed by his question. She sniffed and shook her head with a short laugh. "I don't know why I'm even crying… Didn't even like the guy… Just, you know, shit… no one should have to go that way."

Dean drew nearer. "You saw what happened?"

She looked up at him, her eyes pooling again. "Yes," she said quickly, nodding fast and throwing her arms down to her side in frustration. She waved toward the open ambulance door, eyes wild. "Paul fell on one of the friggin' box belts."

Dean didn't understand, and questioned her with his expression, brows raised. She caught on that he had no idea what she was talking about and pulled in another shaky breath before explaining.

"We—we pack and cork the bottles here, then put them on a conveyor belt to be boxed and loaded up on the trucks…"

Dean frowned. "So he just… fell on the belt?"

She shrugged, sniffing unabashedly. "Guess he fell asleep or something, went over the railing… He didn't—or… couldn't—get off the belt. The guy wasn't exactly fit… and when it got to the box toppers, he was…" she sighed. "Smushed…I guess. Flattened. Pounded-out. Pulverized. Mashed…"

"I get the idea," Dean said quickly, not really wanting her to go into all the ways to describe what had happened to her co-worker. It was safe to say that Paul was a whole lot thinner.

He squeezed the girl's arm sympathetically. "I'm sorry."

She smiled weakly, shaking her head again. "I'll be fine. Really, I don't know why I'm so upset. Just… seeing that…" she said with a shiver. Her hands were suddenly back up on her arms, rubbing away at a personal cold.

"Not like I'll miss him…" she said absently, then realized how harsh that had to sound, her eyes bounding up to meet Dean's. "Oh shit, that sounded so…"

Dean shrugged a shoulder. "You two didn't get along?"

"He was…" she huffed, seeming to find her own callousness sad in light of what had happened. "The guy was a loser," she finally got out. "I'm sorry, but he did _nothing_. He just, took up space. Made lewd comments, and was always finding excuses to be on break. Hell, out of an entire work day, I'd say he did about one hour of actual work," the girl said. "And that's on a good day."

She sighed, now more angry than sad, the memory of Paul setting her off in a big way. "I mean, I go to school and I sometimes pull doubles here. Guy was just… lazy."

Dean suppressed a laugh at the word she'd just used. If there'd been any doubt in his mind that this was their guy, that this was somehow not related to the Seven Deadly Sins, it was thrown out the window in that instant. Paul was _lazy_. Dean bet if he asked, the girl would agree that he was downright _slothful._Dean gave her another sympathetic glance before looking back through the crowd for Sam.

"You'll be alright?" He asked.

"Yeah," she smiled weakly.

Dean headed back through the mass of bodies to where he could see Sam, standing head and shoulders above everyone else.

Sam was looking for him as well, and by the expression on his face, he was dying to say something. When he locked eyes with Dean, the two of them broke away from the crowd, making their way back to the Impala and out of ear shot.

Dean leaned against the car, as Sam made quick glances to make sure no one was around. He was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, bursting to get what he knew out in the open. Dean wasn't about to steal the floor or Sam's enthusiasm.

"You wanna go first?" Dean asked, his lips quirking into an amused grin at the look on Sam's face. He dropped his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. "Or… maybe swallow that canary before you choke on it…"

"Dude," Sam's whisper was urgent, but his eyes were dancing. "You are not gonna believe this, but—" Sam glanced at the crowd dispersing to their cars behind Dean, then grabbed his brother's arm, pulling him away from the people, toward the back of the Impala, out of earshot. "The dead guy's name was Paul Simons."

"Paul_ Simon_?!" Dean barked out a quick, quiet laugh. "No shit. I would have jumped onto a conveyor belt, too—"

"Not _Simon_, Simons." Sam stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets to keep them still.

"Whoa—wait," Dean held up a hand, ticking his head to the side. "As in 'lemme exorcise your demons' _Father_ Simons?"

"Exactly," Sam nodded vigorously. "That lady over there," he tipped his chin in the direction of the crowd. Dean pivoted, glancing at a fortyish woman shaking her head in the direction of the winery. "She said that his _uncle_ was just killed this week."

"So… what? She thinks he off'd himself?" Dean's face pulled together in an incredulous frown.

"Nah," Sam shook his head. "I didn't get a suicide-by-conveyor belt vibe… but she did say he'd been acting depressed." Sam lifted a shoulder. "In the _Divine Comedy_ the Slothful were forced to run without stopping," he reminded Dean.

"Yeah, well… guess he didn't run fast enough," Dean's lips folded down. Looking over at the crown, he nodded. "My turn."

Sam looked from the lady to Dean, waiting.

"See the pretty girl over there in the pink jacket?"

"Dude," Sam warned. "_Tell me_ you got more than her phone number."

"Sam! I'm a professional!" Dean feigned hurt. "And besides," he shrugged. "I didn't have anything for her to write it on."

"Since when has your hand not been good enough?" Sam scoffed.

Dean simply looked at him, his expression one of disbelief layered with an undercurrent of amusement. Sam blinked back, uncomprehending.

"Anyway," Dean said, glancing again at the girl. "She said that the dude—er, uh, _Paul_—wasn't exactly employee of the month. In fact, she said that they could probably get a lot more done without the other half of Garfunkle around to slow things down."

Sam's eyes jerked up from Dean as two winery employees drifted away from the crowd and moved toward them. He grabbed Dean's arm again and pulled him to the other side of the Impala, further into the shadows. As they turned their backs to the employees, they heard snatches of their whispered conversation.

"—serious waste of space," said one. "I mean… you _know_ the only reason he even had this job is because of his uncle."

"Dude, the guy is _dead_," the other admonished. "Stop bashing him, okay? I mean, jeeze."

"Why?" the first retorted. "Not anything you haven't said before. Man, he fell _asleep_ at his station. I mean, seriously, who does that? No wonder he couldn't get off the friggin' belt in time."

"But… he had to have been… drugged or something, I mean, right?" the other queried, his voice fading as they moved away. "No one would just… _let_ themselves be crushed…"

Dean looked at Sam, raising his eyebrows. Sam jerked his head toward the Impala. They hurried to either side of the car, closing the doors in unison. Peering out into the fading light of the day, they watched the crowd around the building and the ambulance disperse, their expressions ranging from shock to relief.

"Dean," Sam said, his voice low, his blue-green eyes intent on the view through the car's front windshield. "One of us has to check out that body."

"What?" Dean twisted in his seat, looking at Sam incredulously. "Why?"

"Why?" Sam shot back, his face fisted in disbelief. "Clues, Dean."

"Ugh, _Sam_," Dean sighed, shaking his head. "What about the… conveyor belt… or… the dude's locker or something?"

"You're right," Sam nodded, looking back out of the window. "We'll have to search both."

Dean's momentary flash of relief was thwarted by Sam's final sentence. He groaned softly. "The guy was… smushed, Sam."

"Yeah, so?"

"So… not like there's gonna be… much to search," Dean grimaced.

"We've gotta be sure," Sam argued, glancing at Dean out of the corner of his eyes. "This is four, Dean." His voice tightened on the number, on the knowledge that they'd been too late once again, on the realization that all they had was the _hope_ that they could find out who the next victim was going to be and get there before the killer. And Sam knew that hope wasn't enough to fuel both of them.

Dean sighed. _Not if we get there first… this is our job… saving people, hunting things…_ His memory was a kaleidoscope of voices that constantly pushed him away from comfort and toward pain.

"Fine," Dean said, his voice betraying none of his reticence to looking at the body bag of goo. "You go check him out, Mr. I Know All About Dante. I'll take the locker."

"What?" Sam looked over at him. "No way. I had to pull the cork out of Sara's mouth. It's your turn."

"Oh, so we're taking _turns_ on the lose-your-lunch parts of this hunt, is that it?" Dean pulled his head back, his eyebrow up.

"You're the oldest, man," Sam pushed. "It's your job."

"Thought you fired me," Dean shot back, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

Sam sighed. "You know there's only one fair way to decide who looks at the body."

Dean rolled his neck. "Man," he whined, shaking his head. "Fine! But I do _not_ always go with scissors."

"Whatever you say," Sam smirked, holding out his fist. On a soft count of _one, two, three_ they bounced their fists in the emptiness between them.

Dean glowered at Sam's fisted "rock" as it smashed his two digit "scissors."

"It's gonna work one of these days," Dean grumbled. "Fine! I'll go look through the bag of goo for a friggin' Latin word."

Sam grinned. "Be careful out there," he said as Dean slid out of the car, gracing him with one of the digits of the scissors as a parting shot. Sam got out of the car and headed toward the winery in a crouched run.

Dean cast furtive glances to either side of him, watching as Sam made his way through the lingering observers toward the packing area and the employee lockers. Taking a breath, he turned his attention to the ambulance and the black bag sitting silent and still—and much too flat—on a stretcher in the back.

_Here goes nothin'_…

Dean moved forward as if he knew exactly where he was going and needed no one's permission to get there. Sliding quietly through the dispersing crowd, he listened to bits and pieces of conversation about the dead man—centered, he realized, more on how this event had managed to end their work day several hours early and not on the fact that a life had reached a very violent end.

Four cops stood nearby, two smoking cigarettes, one talking to the lady Sam had pointed out earlier, and the fourth—who looked vaguely familiar—writing in his notebook. Dean saw a paramedic step from the opened door of the ambulance and allowed himself one moment to ponder why they were loading up an obviously dead man onto an ambulance. _Probably doubling as a coroner's vehicle… small enough town_…

Dean slunk through the shadows, stepped up onto the running board of the ambulance, then swung inside quickly and sat on the side of the black body bag protected by the closed rear door. Staring at the bag, Dean took a breath. _Just a body, Dean… nothing you haven't seen before… just unzip it, look for Latin… c'mon, man, Sam's counting on you_…

"Suck it up, you big pansy," Dean admonished himself under his breath. He reached for the zipper, saw the tremble in his fingers and cursed his need for caffeine to fuel his constant motion.

_That's it… coffee intake is officially decreased… after tonight,_ he thought. He knew he couldn't afford to keep going like this much longer. He could feel his body periodically threatening to simply shut down if he stopped long enough to listen to it. Between demon-possessed butchers introducing him violently to warehouse walls and his own self-destructive methods to avoid the not-so-secret fears lurking at the back of his mind, Dean knew he was dangerously close to an edge… and he didn't want to fall.

Clenching his hands into fists, he took a breath, forcing it out through his slightly puckered lips. Slowly relaxing his hands, he reached for the zipper of the body bag and pulled it down. The _shhhrrt_ sound made him wince and he looked over his shoulder toward the opening of the ambulance.

_Hurry..._ He licked his lips and took a steadying breath, then looked back toward the bag.

The sight that met his eyes was worse than anything Landis, Zombie, Tarentino, or even Ramero could have thought of—or gotten away with. It was real, visceral. A person's body was lying before him, but everything that could have identified it as human had been stripped by either the machine that killed him, or the efforts of getting the body from the belt to the bag.

"Uhhh…" Dean uttered, trying to breath through his mouth.

The sickenly-sweet warmth of the odor from the insides of Paul Simons assaulted him. He immediately pressed the bend of his elbow across his face, breathing in through the filter of leather, choking back the urge to hurl the contents of his stomach into the stench that radiated from that bag. He held his breath.

Prying away the edges of the body bag with careful fingers, he searched first with his eyes, finding nothing but a lot of blood and body fluid. Exhaling quickly and tucking his face into his shoulder to pull in another breath to hold, he pulled out his knife from its sheath at the small of his back and used the tip to pry away what could possibly be… clothes? A ring? A belt?

Nothing. No Latin. No clue that he could see leading them to the next sin, the next virtue, the next victim. _I hope you've found something, Sammy_, he thought as he slid his knife back into place. _Because I ain't found sh_—

"Hey!" The bark of authority caused Dean to jump. He whipped his head over and saw the cop that had been writing in his notebook—_crap! from Father Simons' crime scene… Dare? Dade? Dane!_—standing in the entrance to the ambulance, looking at him with a suspicious glare.

Dean's heart jumped from his chest to his throat with barely an effort. He _knew_ they were too close to the inside of this investigation... he'd tried to tell Sam... He licked his lips, tasting the salt of the sweat that had immediately gathered on his upper lip.

"What the hell are you doin' in here?" Officer Dane barked, his face twisted up in a look of disbelief.

Without missing a beat, Dean let his face crumble into a completely devastated expression. He allowed tears to form, allowed his breath to hitch, lifted his hands toward the cop to show how they shook.

"I-I… just n-needed to see him on l-last time…" Dean sobbed, standing on shaky legs and moving toward the cop.

Officer Dane looked uncertain. "Well, you aren't allowed in here, man," he said, reaching for Dean and helping him step from the back of the ambulance to the ground. "You a friend of the… deceased?"

"Uh," Dean sniffed, wiping a hand across his eyes. "Yeah. We were, uh… good—good friends. We worked together for—"

Before he'd finished the sentence, Dean knew he'd taken the act one step too far. He felt the cop's hand tighten on his arm.

"You aren't dressed like one of Paul's coworker's," Officer Dane growled.

"I was… off… shift?" Dean tried. _Shit_…

"Uh-huh," Officer Dane shot back, shoving Dean against the side of the ambulance. "Let's see some ID, pal."

Dean opened his mouth, but the cop pushed at him again. "Okay, okay," Dean patted the air with his open hands. "Just let me get it."

He stepped slightly away from the ambulance, searching his memory for which fake ID he had stuffed in his wallet last. As he grasped his wallet, preparing to pull it out, the cop who had been interviewing Sam's source called to Officer Dane.

"You just wait here," Officer Dane pointed a threatening finger at Dean.

Dean flicked a two fingered salute back at him, rotating as he watched the cop walk to his buddy and lean in close for information. Out of the corner of his eyes, Dean caught sight of the Impala pulling close, Sam at the wheel. A grin broke over his face like a wave cresting beachhead. _That's my boy…_

He darted cautious hazel eyes to Officer Dane's back and tensed to run just as Sam whipped the car around, the passenger door swinging open. Dean broke into a run, ignoring the shouts behind him, diving head first into the open door. Sam didn't wait for him to situated himself; he flattened the gas pedal, tearing out of the winery's driveway and away from the cops. The forward motion rolled Dean to the back of the seat, and as Sam turned a sharp right out of the driveway, Dean's legs curled in, avoiding the slam of the passenger door.

He ended up in a pile on the floor of the passenger seat, looking up at his brother.

"I take back everything I ever said about you driving her," Dean gasped out. "I'm so happy to see you."

"That was close, man," Sam breathed.

"You're telling me," Dean agreed, climbing into the passenger seat and turning around so he faced front. "No more live crime scenes, man."

"Y'know," Sam said, checking the rear view mirror. "This whole fugitive gig ain't all it's cracked up to be."

"Says the guy who wanted to be just like his big brother," Dean retorted, twisting around to look behind them. "Get on the FBI's Most Wanted list."

"Yeah, well," Sam said, adjusting in his seat when he saw that no one was behind them. "I take it back."

"Barn door is open and horse is on the loose, Sammy," Dean said, twisting around and settling back against the seat with a sigh. "You're in this as deep as I am. They aren't following us."

"Probably just think you're some weirdo with a fetish for bodies," Sam smirked. "Or a CSI wanna be…"

"Nice," Dean shook his head.

"What did you find?" Sam asked, reaching for the radio.

"A whole lotta nothing," Dean said, watching Sam's hand. "And goo. What the hell are you doing?"

"Your rules, man," Sam grinned turning up 30 Seconds to Mars' _From Yesterday_. "Driver picks the music; shotgun shuts his cakehole."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "_This_ is why you never drive. You and your emo rock."

"Whatever," Sam glowered. Then a grin broke out across his face. "Ask me what I found."

"Are you serious?" Dean turned in his seat, an arm on the windowsill, the other across the back of the seat. "I have to dig through human gunk and _you _find the friggin' clue?"

Sam grinned and reached over to turn up the radio.

"_On a mountain he sits, not of gold but of sin, through the blood he can learn, see the life that it turn. From council of one, he'll decide when he's done with the innocent…"_

"Spill it or I'm going to veto the rule for tonight only," Dean grumbled.

Reaching into his jacket pocket, Sam pulled out a black matchbook with iridescent lettering and shimmering flames on the front and tossed it to Dean, who caught it with his left hand. Dean looked at the cover of the matchbook.

"**The Inferno**," he read. "No friggin' way…"

"I know," Sam chortled. "Can you believe it? I saw that in his locker and I… I just _knew…_"

"But what—"

"Open it," Sam instructed.

Dean flipped the cover of the matchbook open. Written in the scrawl of an ancient man was the word _Castitas_.

"Sam, **The Inferno** is a dance club," Dean said, closing the matchbook again, frowning at the cover. "Back in Tulsa—where we found Andre."

Sam cast a quick glance in his direction, his eyebrow raised in question. Dean raised a shoulder.

"I notice these things," he said.

"Yeah? Who worked there?" Sam countered.

Dean grinned. "Remember that girl we met at the storage lot? When we were looking for the warehouse that Andre had bought?"

"The brunette?" Sam asked, his brows pulling together.

"Well… what do you know," Dean chucked. "There is a red-blooded American male inside of my baby brother."

"Shut up," Sam scoffed. "I only remembered her because—"

"She was hot," Dean interrupted.

"No," Sam retorted. "She wore the same perfume as Jessica." Sam finished.

Dean was silent for a moment. "And… she was hot," he said.

Sam chuckled. "So… you're saying she… what? Went to this club?"

Dean shook his head. "She works there, man. Beer trough girl or something."

"Beer _what_?"

"Stands behind a huge trough of whatever beer is sponsoring the night… dude, c'mon… you went to college," Dean scoffed. "Don't tell me you don't know what a beer trough girl is."

Sam lifted an eyebrow and looked over at Dean, silent. Dean shook his head.

"Anyway, yeah, club's in Tulsa," Dean said, sitting back. He looked at the inside of the matchbook again. "_Castitas_…"

"Chastity," Sam muttered, his eyes on the road. He glanced once at Dean. "Lust."

"Oh, swell," Dean muttered, slouching further into the seat. "We gotta go to a friggin' _dance club_ and find one person guilty of Lust?"

Sam nodded, tightening his grip on the steering wheel.

"You do realize that is… impossible," Dean said, turning his head against the seat to look at Sam. He felt the cut at the back of his head pull with the motion, so he lifted his head, adjusting the pressure as he rested it back against the seat.

"The person is going to have to be from Mercy," Sam muttered, his eyes darting in thought.

"That's still a helluva lot of people, Sam," Dean pointed out. "What are we gonna do? Go up to every person and ask them where they're from? We'll sound like freakin' game show hosts."

Sam glanced over at his brother, slouched in the seat, staring at the matchbook. "Thought you were Columbo," he teased.

Dean just shot him a look.

"You'll think of something," Sam reassured him.

"Me?!"

"Yeah," Sam nodded, checking his mirrors. "You're the ladies' man in this outfit."

"What if it's a guy, Sammy?" Dean said, his lips curling up in a grin. He pushed himself up in the seat. "You gonna take that angle?"

"Shut up," Sam said, turning serious. "We got three left, Dean. We've been too late to _every single_ one."

"We're not the only ones, Sam," Dean pointed out, turning in the seat to face his brother's tense profile. "The cops haven't even put the pattern together!"

"Yeah, exactly," Sam pointed out, turning into the parking lot of the motel. "We have. And we're _still _too late."

Dean sighed, resting his hand on the door handle as Sam shut off the car, plunging them into silence. "We'll figure it out, Sam," he said. "I promise you, we'll figure it out."

"We'd better," Sam looked over at him with haunted eyes. "Because I'm tired of losing people we're trying to save."

"Sam…"

"I'm serious, man," Sam's voice was soft. "What's the point of fighting so hard if we're just a step behind the bad guys?"

Dean closed his eyes for a moment, finding his balance. He opened them, staring hard at Sam. "Listen to me," he said. "Are you listening?"

Sam nodded.

"We're gonna find this demon, Sam," Dean said, his eyes steady, his jaw set. "We're gonna find it and we're gonna lay a little of St. Pat on its ass, send it back to Hell. And we're gonna save as many people as we can." _No matter if that's three… or one…_ he thought.

"And then?" Sam asked softly, his eyes young as he regarded Dean, his older brother, his protector, his hero, his guardian. "What happens then, Dean?"

Dean looked down, gathering his strength, then looked out the front window away from Sam. "Then… we pick up where we left off," he said softly. "Saving people. Hunting… things."

"I don't know if I can do that," Sam said.

Dean looked back at him, his eyes ancient, full of sorrow and honesty. "You may not have a choice, Sam."

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a/n:

Hope you're enjoying the ride… stay tuned! The weekend is going to be… positively sinful. wink


	5. Friday: Lust

**Disclaimer/Spoilers/Authors:** See Chapter 1.

a/n: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Reviews **are** better than chocolate. Except for maybe dark chocolate… some days there's _nothing_ better than that… wink

So, from this point out, our story will be posted beta-free. We will do our best to cross check each other as we always do, watching out for the weaknesses in grammar and the inevitable typos that wriggle through, but without Kelly's watchful eye, I'm sure some will get through.

Kelly, we appreciate everything you've done for us and we wish you all the best. Thanks for having our backs and know that we've got yours.

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_"Lust is to the other passions what the nervous fluid is to life; it supports them all, lends strength to them all ambition, cruelty, avarice, revenge… all founded on lust." -- Marquis de Sade_

_  
She's a candle burning in my room  
Yeah I'm like the needle, needle and spoon  
Over the counter with a shotgun  
Pretty soon everybody got one  
And the fever when I'm beside her  
Desire_

"_Desire" by U2_

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Friday: Lust

"You okay?"

"Yeah." Dean's lie was muffled by his hand, tented across his face, fingers and thumb pressing his eyes shut, palm covering his mouth.

"Need some water?"

"No."

"Aspirin?"

"Go back to sleep, Sam."

"I will if you will," Sam retorted stubbornly.

Sam shifted to his right side, peering at Dean's slumped form silhouetted against the sliver of light from the parking lot that fingered its way into the room through the small crack between the curtains. Sam shot a glance to the red numbers on the digital clock between their beds. 2:17. A.M. Very, very A.M.

Dean sat in his bed, darkness hiding the still-healing bruises, sheets twisted around his legs from a restless attempt at sleep. Sam could see him rubbing his hand across his face, then dragging it back to rub at his neck again, an unconscious sign that told Sam pain and Dean were going to remain fast friends.

"Yeah, okay," Dean finally sighed.

Sam pulled his eyebrows together, unsure what Dean was agreeing to until his brother struggled his legs free of the covers, stood stiffly, and made his way over to the table where his duffel sat. Sam couldn't see him in the dark that shadowed that corner of the room, but he heard the rattle of the pill bottle and the pause as Dean tossed some pain meds to the back of his throat. Sam's eyes continued to adjust to the darkness and he watched Dean slowly climb back into bed with the stiff, halting movements of one three times his brother's age.

The barely-suppressed groan as Dean straightened out on his stomach, sliding an arm under the pillow and pressing his face into the soft give of the feather-filled cotton told Sam that his actions from last night were currently beating his brother up from the inside out. Sighing softly, Sam blinked in the darkness, watching Dean's back move with the effort of breathing. Soon, Dean twisted slightly to the side, away from Sam, and dropped one hand behind his back.

Sam let himself relax slightly when he heard Dean's breathing shift from restrained puffs of air to the slower, deeper rhythm indicative of sleep. Sam rolled to his back, trying unsuccessfully not to look at the ceiling. When he was young, he'd been afraid to look under his bed at night. He'd been subjected to _Poltergeist_ by Dean at an extremely impressionable age—for research purposes, Dean had claimed—ruining him for clowns and the underside of his bed for years to come.

As an adult, Sam became afraid to look at the ceiling. Memories and nightmare wreaked havoc on eyes that had seen too much to be able to block out unwanted images. His only solace when night stole his peace had become watching Dean breathe. He'd never tell his brother that, but breathing with Dean, matching his rhythm, soothed Sam's weary mind and edgy soul, allowing him the chance for real rest.

Until Cold Oak.

Until Sam died and Dean chose Sam's life over his own soul. Until Dean's nightmares began. Sam knew that Dean hadn't really known peace since John died, but he'd been able to fake it enough that Sam's tactic for grasping moments of respite had continued to work... until Cold Oak.

Hearing Dean mutter an incoherent curse, Sam rolled his head on the pillow, watching as his brother continued to wrestle with demons only he could see and hear. If Dean had had his way, he would have topped off a twenty-four hour caffeinated run with a whiskey chaser night.

When they'd returned to the motel from the winery last night, Sam had started to immediately describe to Dean the best way to whittle down the possible victims by mapping connections to the four they'd already lost. Using his index finger, he'd drawn an invisible genealogy tree in the air as he'd dug the room keys from his pocket and approached the door.

Dean, however, had been literally unable to walk into the motel room. He'd frozen in place three steps from the entrance, staring into the darkened room with an expression of a trapped animal. Handing Sam the light bulb he'd acquired from the maintenance man earlier, Dean had made a hasty excuse about talking to the locals in the bar down the street, told Sam he'd call him later, and had rotated on his heel, heading back to the Impala.

Sam had watched, mouth agape, unable to pinpoint when he'd last seen his brother that reluctant to return to one of their temporary homes. It hadn't hit him until he'd closed the motel door behind him, the quiet room mocking him with echoes of their angry confessions. _Lawrence_. Each time they'd had to return to the place where Dean had lost his childhood, Sam could remember that same uncertain, haunted, trapped expression settle like a transparent mask on his brother's face.

Sam had stared at his laptop with unseeing eyes for exactly forty-five minutes before he'd given up and started walking toward the bar. Too much had happened in too little time; he hated to admit it, but he couldn't think straight without Dean around. He needed his brother's often annoying ramblings, needed his inability to be still if even for a moment… hell, he just needed _Dean_. Sam's quiet walk had been peppered with memories of wanting Dean away, gone, _not here_… leaving a cold feeling in his gut.

Night had crept across Mercy on silent footsteps, casting everything into shadow and tickling the edges of imagined fears. Sam was unafraid of the night. He knew what the darkness held. He knew how to fight it, defeat it.

What scared him was deeper than night terrors. Darker than imagination. What scared Sam lurked inside of him, hidden from everyone—except for maybe Dean. It was a darkness that wasn't demon-induced. An ability that had nothing to do with the yellow-eyed demon's psychic gifts.

Sam could take a life. Had taken a life. Could do it again. And that terrified him.

Hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, Sam had entered the bar, quick eyes finding Dean at the pool table in the back. Dean had been leaning on his cue as if it were the one solid thing in his life, his tired eyes on the hands of his opponents as they lined up a shot. Sam hadn't heard his brother's words, but he'd seen Dean's lips move as a sly line was delivered at just the right moment to distract the shooter and cause the balls to bounce harmlessly around the table.

As Sam had crossed the room toward his brother, he had seen a row of six empty shot glasses lining the cue rack behind Dean. Sam had squared his shoulders, ignoring the two other players that were in the process of handing over their last paycheck to Dean, and stepped directly up to his brother.

Dean had started to pull back, resisting Sam's silent command. Sam had grabbed Dean's shoulders, his voice low, pitched toward Dean's ear, meant for only him.

"It's enough, man." Sam had shaken Dean gently, forcing his brother's eyes to meet his. "Enough."

Swallowing, Dean had started to shake his head, but had swayed just enough that had Sam's hands not tightened in support, the pool cue wouldn't have saved him from greeting the hard-wood floor with his already bruised face. Nodding, Dean had handed the pool cue to Sam who had made excuses to the other players, placating them with a portion of Dean's winnings, and had steered his brother outside.

Once at the Impala, Sam had held his hand out for the keys, waited while Dean poured his body into the passenger seat, then started the car. Dean's voice had surprised him with its clarity. After functioning on almost nothing but caffeine and alcohol, Sam would have been in a coma. But Dean… Dean's system hummed on a frequency one level higher than mortal men.

"You don't have to do this."

Sam had looked over at Dean as he backed out of the lot. "Do what?"

"Take care of me," Dean had tipped his head against the glass of the passenger side window. "I'll be okay."

"Your body is a grenade with the pin already pulled, man," Sam had grumbled. He could see Dean's hands tremble, the muscle in his jaw bunch, the tight pull of skin around his exhausted eyes. "If we're gonna finish this hunt… find this friggin' demon… you can't keep doing this to yourself."

"I'll be okay," Dean had repeated.

"Yeah? For how long?" Sam had shot back.

"Eleven months," Dean had replied, his voice soft, his breath clouding the window next to him.

Swamped by memory, Sam swallowed, shifting once more in the bed to a more comfortable position. Dean's body had finally raised the white flag when he'd tried to get out of the Impala back at the motel. Sam had hauled his pliant form into the room, dropping him in a heap on the nearest bed. He'd been barely conscious when Sam pulled his boots off and helped him out of his clothes.

That had been just three hours ago. Sam silently cursed the nightmares that kept his brother from the only thing that could potentially prevent him from systematically destroying himself over the rest of this year.

_I'm gonna save you, Dean… you gotta believe me… I __**will **__save you._

And when he did, Sam thought, once again watching Dean's side move with the steady rhythm of temporary peace, there had better be something left of his brother to continue on.

Eyes blinking heavily, body neither weighted with alcohol nor shaking from caffeine, Sam drifted slowly to the beat of his brother's breathing, watching in the dark, lulled by a false calm. For Sam, the transition from waking to sleeping was as quick and seamless as stepping from one room into another.

For Dean, it was as if he had stepped off a ledge and fell until his body landed in a rolling pit of liquid, burning rock. He could no longer see the room, no longer feel the sheets, no longer hear his brother, no longer sense Sam's ever-watchful eyes. Images buffeted Dean's exhausted body, shooting him with the sting of rock salt fired from his own gun and burning him with the promise of the future he'd created for himself.

_I couldn't have done it without your pathetic, self-loathing, self-destructive desire to sacrifice yourself for your family. _

Dean turned away from the heat to face utter desolation—a barren landscape illuminated by an invisible moon. Not a tree or a rock, hill or valley to break up the total bleakness that lay before him. And across from him stood a man.

"I killed you, you son of a bitch," Dean rasped as yellow eyes teased him.

_Did you?_

The man stepped forward and Dean saw Sam's face, his hazel eyes shifting to solid black, then once again to yellow.

"Stop it," Dean said, hands fisting at his sides with the strength of a whisper.

Sam's face shifted, flattened, disappeared so that the figure before him was nothing more than a blurred shadow. Then a mouth appeared on the faceless form, cracking into an exaggerated, clown-like smile, features building from there, reshaping, reforming until Dean stared with frightened eyes at his own reflection.

_Or did you create me?_

Yellow-eyed Dean tilted his head in question, his grin creeping up once more until the edges stretched back to his ears, his eyes shifting from yellow to black. Dean shook his head, wanting to step back, step away from the twisted image before him, but he knew the fire was at his back, the fire was waiting for him.

"I won't let you win!" Dean shouted suddenly.

_I've already won, Dean. You had nothing to lose but your soul and you __**gave**__ that away without a fight!_

The features continued to morph until suddenly John stood before him, dark eyes bright with tears, bearded face careworn and sad.

"Dean."

"Dad?" He was suddenly six, ten, twelve. He was a child as he'd never been. John's eyes were warm, pulling him in. Dean stepped forward, reaching out a hand. "Dad?"

Suddenly, John's face collapsed in pain. "Dean!"

Dean stepped forward, catching John as he went to his knees on the cracked earth. Dean struggled to keep them both upright, but he wasn't strong enough. As he gripped his father to him, he felt the body in his arms shift, stretch, thin-out, tremble.

"Dean…"

Pulling his head back, Dean saw Sam's pale profile, felt the warm rush of blood spill over the hands gripped at his brother's back.

"Aw, no… no, Sammy, no, not again… please… _please_… I can't… _I can't_…"

"Dean," Sam gasped out, and Dean gripped him tighter, feeling the primal scream of rage build around his heart.

Then his arms were empty and he tumbled forward, catching himself before his face hit the dirt. Swallowing a sob, Dean pulled his knees forward, pushing himself up, fighting against the desire to simply lay down and let go. He was just so _tired_… and he hurt. He truly _hurt_. He didn't want to fight anymore… but it was all he knew. It was all he understood. He looked over his shoulder at the roiling heat and saw his choice: burn for eternity or wander alone.

Both were devastating, both devoid of hope. A soft laugh glided through the non-existent air around him and he shot his head around, looking for the source. It was a woman's laughter, a mocking laughter. It grew, built, deepened until Dean felt the wickedness fueling the sound. He stood, turning in a circle, frantic eyes scanning the shifting landscape—fire or emptiness alternating before his eyes. Then she was there. The Crossroads Demon. Standing before him, laughing softly, her lovely face a tease of flesh that masked an empty soul.

Dean drew back, his mouth opening to take a breath and suddenly her face melted, turning into a image of gore, a hellish visage of death. Her disintegrating figure rushed toward him, dissipating just before it slammed bodily into him, leaving in its wake the sensation of wings beating at the sides of his face.

With a gasp for air as if surfacing from a deep pool, Dean forced his eyes open, feeling as if he'd just landed hard on his bed after being dropped from a great height. He was on his back, one hand flung to the side and hanging off the edge of the bed, the other across his chest, palm pressed flat against his heart as if to reassure himself that it was still beating.

Dean lifted the hand hanging off the bed, wiggling his fingers slowly to return the blood flow and feeling to the appendages, and rubbed at his sweaty, stubble-framed face. It was quiet in the room save for the gentle hum of the HVAC fan and Sam's soft snoring. Taking a breath, Dean turned his head on the pillow to peer at the digital clock between their beds. 5:47 A.M. Way too A.M.

Suppressing a groan, Dean rolled to his side, away from Sam's sleeping form and pushed himself slowly to a sitting position, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, the threadbare carpet felt like little knots beneath his bare feet. Propping one elbow on his knee, he dropped his face into his open palm. He could feel his body tremble as the room rolled around him.

_No more whiskey_, he admonished himself. _For like… a week… at least._

He gripped the edge of the bed until it obediently ceased its languid rotation. His mouth was dry, his lips clammy. His head… the beat in his head put even Lars Ulrich's skills to shame. He hadn't wanted to worry Sam, hadn't intended for Sam to come after him last night. He just _couldn't_ walk into the motel room. Not after… not after everything that had been said. Not after he told Sam what it had felt like to—

"Save them…"

Dean started at the sound of Sam's voice, slurred with sleep, softened by dreams. Careful not to move his eyes too quickly, he looked over his shoulder at the sound of rustled sheets, watching as Sam twisted sideways in the bed, a line bisecting his brow, his lips pursed with words unsaid.

_Workin' on it, Sammy…_

"Gotta… save him."

Dean shifted sideways, pulling one leg up, knee bent. He rested the palm of his left hand on the bed, supporting his weight and peered closer at Sam. _Him?_ Him who?

Sam ticked his head to the side, definitively telling someone or something _no_ in the netherworld that held him captive. Dean waited, but no further information leaked from Sam's unknowing lips. Sighing, Dean turned back around and slowly pushed himself to a wavering stance.

_No more whiskey, period._

He felt like death. Worse than death. He felt like he'd willingly turned himself inside out. He was hung-over, hungry, and shaking. He had not been kind to his body and he'd done it on purpose.

Using a combination of the bed and the motel room walls for support, he made his way unsteadily to the bathroom. He didn't bother flipping on the light. The small window above the shower would eventually let the sunlight in and it wasn't like he didn't know where everything was located.

Allowing himself the luxury of a small groan of self-pity, Dean hooked his thumbs into his boxer briefs and shoved them free from his body. After taking care of the business of getting up after a night of drinking and with eyes barely open, he shuffled carefully over to the bathtub and turned on the water, waiting until it was hot, then pulled the tap for the shower.

Leaning against the cool tile wall for a moment, he forced back the lurch of nausea. The longer he remained upright, the worse he felt. Rolling his neck, he blinked his eyes closed as his brain pounded _Master of Puppets _against his skull.

"God hates me," he whispered. "That's what it is."

Stepping carefully into the waiting steam and spray, he shivered as the heat of the water raised a thrill of goose bumps on the flesh along the sides of his legs and backs of his arms. Few more days like Thursday… or had it been Wednesday? He was having trouble keeping track of the days.

He opened his eyes under the stream of water. He _had_ to keep track. He had to know _exactly_ how much time he had left.

"Dammit, Dean," he growled to himself, tipping his head back and letting the hot water spill over his forehead, fill the hollow of his eyes, and tumble along his chin to race itself down his body to the drain beneath his feet. "Get a friggin' grip, man."

He was self-destructing. He knew it… Sam knew it. If Dad had still been around, he would have verbally kicked his ass for allowing circumstances to pull him so low. Thinking of John, of the moment he'd realized his dad was free, was there, was _saving_ him, Dean shivered.

He stepped back so that the water fell directly on top of his head, wrapping liquid arms of heat around his suddenly chilled body. He should never have allowed himself to be this open to attack, be this… out of control. He raised his hands, peering at them through the gray light filtering in through the window above him, watching the tips of his fingers tremble as the concoction of coffee and whiskey hovered at the edge of his system.

Focusing his will, his eyes intent on his hands, he took a water-soaked breath and forced his hands to still. When his fingers finally steadied, he allowed himself a quick smile, water ticking off the edge of his lips. He shoved his fingers through his short, soaked hair and then brought them back to wipe the droplets from his eyes.

_I want you to watch out for Sammy… _

John's low, whispered plea still haunted Dean's memory, even after his father's bleak warning of _save him or kill him _no longer held any weight. Dean swallowed, turning to face the water, willing it to beat the morning-after effects of alcohol and exhaustion from his system, willing it to beat him back to life. He braced a hand against the tile wall just below the shower head and let his chin drop, the water running across the back of his neck and down his spine.

Reaching for the faucet to increase the heat of the water, Dean felt the tremors return and narrowed his eyes at his fingers. "Traitors," he grumbled and curled his hand into a solid fist.

_Following in daddy's footsteps, you want to make a deal._

Dean closed his eyes, forcing out a breath, water rippling over his parted lips. _Did you know, Dad?_ The Crossroads Demon had known him, had known John. Had John known what Dean was doing when he buried that box at the crossroads?

_Gone and got your family killed, all alone in the world._

It had known about Sam. Known Sam was dead. _Did __**you**__ know, Dad?_ The look on his father's face that moment in the cemetery… he hadn't seen that look since John found them in Chicago. Not even in the hospital. Not even when John had said he was proud of him. John's eyes had been full of life in that moment—the moment he'd touched Dean, the moment Dean had impossibly felt the weight of his father's hand.

_If you knew… well, then, you approved_, Dean thought, bringing his head up slowly, allowing the water to skip over his chin. _If you knew… you so much as told me I did the right thing_…

He rubbed at his forehead with his free hand. _Where are you now, Dad? Are you watching this? Watching us? Can you see Sam fight this? Are you counting down the days like me?_ His dad had survived so much… had fought so much… had found the strength to climb out of Hell to save his boys… Dean dropped his hand from his face, spreading it flat, looking at the wet skin, the myriad of tiny scars across the knuckles, the story of a life.

_What the hell am I doing?_ He thought, clenching his jaw. _What the hell am I doing to myself? To Sam?_ He was starting to live like he was already dead… and dying before the year was up would certainly be seen as weaseling out of the deal. Try to get out of the deal, and Sam dies. Just like that.

_Did you sell your soul for me, like Dad did for you?_

Unbidden, images from his nightmare tore through him, pulling the air from his lungs, staggering him into the wet tile wall. Dean shook his head roughly, letting the water wash away the eerie feeling of the demon rushing past him. _Had Dad known? Did he see those bastards cheer when Sam died in my arms? Did he watch them barter for the chance to be the one to deal for my soul?_

Thinking of his father's silent struggle as he fought is way free of Hell, his father's absolute pain as he'd been forced to leave his sons behind with the fight still raging, built a heat inside of Dean that matched the steam surrounding him in the darkened bathroom.

"Screw this," Dean growled, pushing away from the wall. "No friggin' way they are going to win this early in the game." They had work to do, starting with this Seven Deadly Sins demon or psycho human killer… or whatever the hell.

The sound of a palm smacking harshly against the closed bathroom door startled him.

"Dean?!"

"Gimme a minute, Sam!"

"You… you're in there?"

Dean frowned, tilting his eyes toward the curtain separating his body from the rest of the bathroom. "Where the hell else would I be?"

"Why's it dark?"

_Oh._ "Lights are too bright," he called back.

Sam was silent for a moment. "No more whiskey," he grumbled through the door.

_I hear you there, brother._

"Whatever, _Mom_," Dean shot back.

He heard Sam mutter something else, but couldn't make it out through the shower and the door. Washing quickly and stepping out, he glanced at himself in the mirror, briefly flirting with the idea of shaving. He regarded the shadows dancing across his face as the sun made its move to take over the world that waited outside of the dark protection of their motel room.

He pulled in a slow breath, then looked around the floor of the bathroom, belatedly realizing that he hadn't brought any clothes in with him, but thankful that he could move both his eyes and his body independently of each other and not feel like anchoring himself to the toilet.

_But I guess we are stronger as a family. So we go after this damn thing together… _Dean heard his father's voice, again. Heard in it the reminder that he wasn't dead. Not yet. And he had a brother out there who needed him to remember that.

Wrapping one of the small motel towels around his waist, he stepped out of the bathroom, instantly squinting his eyes against the light emanating from the lamp between the beds.

"Damn," he muttered, lifting a hand up to shield his eyes from the weak light. "Bob must've given us one of those mega-watt bulbs."

"Get dressed," Sam ordered, his voice sullen.

Dean's eyes quickly roamed the room until he spotted Sam sitting at the table, face illuminated by the light from his laptop. He was dressed, his boots untied, jeans falling in loose folds into the open tops. His hair was spiraled around his head, evidence of a restless night's sleep, tufts on the right side turned into miniature tornadoes. Dean frowned, knowing by the fist resting on the table that Sam was physically holding himself back from twisting his hair nervously.

"Who pissed in your Wheaties this morning?" Dean tossed out, working to level out his voice, be as normal as possible inside an abnormal moment.

"Just get dressed, Dean."

"What? You think I proclaimed this naked day or something?" Dean shot back, heading for his duffel. "Seriously, dude, untwist your boxers already."

"Y'know, you're unbelievable," Sam snapped.

Dean bobbed his head in agreement, digging clothes out of his duffel one-handed.

"Nice of you to finally acknowledge that."

"You…" Sam shook his head and looked away. "Last night you… and then with the…" Sam clenched his jaw, turning hot eyes back to Dean, biting the ends of his words off. "You told me once that you needed me sharp—to watch your back. Remember?"

"Yeah," Dean replied, dropping his towel and pulling on his boxers and a clean pair of jeans.

Sam sat back in the chair, eyes shifting between Dean and the empty beds. "We stood at ground zero while an army of demons was released. And if we have any hope of putting them all back where they belong… we _both_ have to be sharp, man."

Dean slid his eyes over to Sam.

"That means we gotta take care of _each other_," Sam's voice was earnest. "You're not in this all by yourself, you know."

"You sleep okay?" Dean asked, attempting to change the subject, maneuver the attention away from him.

"You don't have to pretend like nothing happened last night, Dean. It's not the first bar I had to drag you out of, you know."

"Seriously, Dude, 'cause you look beat."

Sam huffed out a disbelieving breath, his eyes dancing over the purple shadows fanning out from the corners of Dean's eyes, then leaned over to tie his boots. "Sleep," he muttered, shaking his head.

"Yeah, _sleep_. At least that's what I assume is going on while you're busy sawing through all the air in the room with your hellacious snoring."

Sam straightened with an affronted manner. "I don't snore."

Dean laughed. "You so do," he grabbed a gray long-sleeved Henley from his bag and shrugged into it. "Pull the friggin' curtains off the rods."

"We're going to eat, Dean," Sam informed him, his lips twitching.

"Since when have you had to convince me to eat?" Dean asked, leaning against the wall to pull on his boots.

"Since yesterday, apparently."

_Oh._

"And _no coffee_."

Dean bit back a groan. After the pyramid of whiskey shots last night, he _needed_ coffee. But Sam's eyes were quiet and hard. He was watching Dean like he was expecting him to disappear. And Dean couldn't blame him. He hadn't been behaving exactly… _normal_.

"Fine," Dean replied. "I'll have a Coke and a smile."

Sam opened his mouth to retort, but closed it again, when Dean shot a grin in his direction. The mask was shifting, fading, becoming solid once more. Dean was trying, Sam saw. Trying to keep the doubt, the fear, the weakness of being human wrapped up inside a tight, impenetrable fortress and Sam instinctively knew if he pushed too hard, Dean would fall and they would both be lost.

Sam depended on Dean's shields to keep himself whole. Especially now… when there was an actual expiration date on this protection… a seemingly immovable moment when Dean would simply… _not_ be there.

"Listen," Sam said, pushing himself to his feet and grabbing a long-sleeved shirt to pull over his white T-shirt. "We only have a few hours to figure out who the next victim is before that night club opens—"

"We got time, Sam," Dean interrupted, shoving his wallet into his back pocket. "People don't go to night clubs until like nine, ten at the earliest."

"Well, whatever," Sam waved a hand at him. "That still doesn't leave us much time… I mean..." Sam glanced over to the wall where he'd pinned the images of death pulled from the mind of Dante. "We kinda know _why_ they're going to die—and how—but the only way we can figure out _who's_ going to die is to see how they're connected to the other four."

"If this one is connected." Dean pivoted away from his bag, tilting his head in Sam's direction. "If it's not just… messing with us."

Sam narrowed his eyes in thought. "This thing hasn't been random once, Dean. Every clue is purposeful. It… _knows_ this text. Hell… for all we know it helped Dante write it!"

"College boy," Dean sing-songed. "Thinks he's so smaht…"

"And," Sam rubbed his chin with the tips of his fingers. "We haven't found a single victim before it wanted us to."

Dean lifted a shoulder. "Okay, then, what's the game plan, here, Coach?"

"First," Sam said, pointing at Dean, then swiveling his head in his brother's direction. "You need something other than caffeine and alcohol."

"Sam, I'll be okay—"

"No," Sam shook his head. "You can't keep doing this to yourself, Dean. You won't have anything left to fight with when they..." Sam closed his mouth.

Dean swallowed, looking silently at his brother. Sam stared stubbornly back. Dean could have sworn that he heard a tick as the digital radio counted down the seconds. Relenting, Dean glanced down, twisting his silver ring around his finger.

"I know."

"What?" Sam tilted his head, his brows quirking.

"I know, Sam," Dean nodded once. "You're right. I'm being an ass."

"Again."

"Again," Dean allowed. "We got three more sins, right?"

"Yeah," Sam nodded. "Three sins and one psychotic demon."

Dean's face lit up with the same maniacal smile Sam had let encourage him when they stood next to the Impala just outside of the Hell Gate cemetery.

"I don't know 'bout you," Dean said, snaking the Impala keys from where they rested on the small table. "But I'm in the mood to kick some demon ass."

Sam stepped toward the door. "After breakfast."

Dean tossed him a look. "Jeeze," he shook his head, stepping out of the door. "You're so bossy."

"Learned from the best," Sam followed him to the car.

www

"I said no coffee. That's two coffees. Who taught you to count?"

"Bite me. You want to keep this whole Family Tree from Hell routine going, I need some caffeine."

"Well, one of those better be for me, then," Sam grumbled, shoving the lid back onto the black Sharpie he'd been using to draw links to and from each name on the poster board they'd picked up at the general store earlier and tacked to the wall.

"The one on the right," Dean said, taking a sip out of the cup on the left. "Gah! Wait, sorry, your right, my left."

"Just hand me the damn thing."

Setting the bag of cheeseburgers down, Dean handed Sam his coffee, then shrugged free of his jacket. He sipped the steaming beverage, sugar and cream free, and sighed. _That's the stuff_…

Sam had left the music playing on the one good station Dean had been able to tune in on the digital clock radio and AC/DC's _Have a Drink on Me _crackled happily in the background.

"Where'r we at?" Dean asked, cup hovering at the edge of his bottom lip.

Sam reached into the bag Dean had brought back with him and grabbed a cheeseburger. It had been over eight hours since breakfast at the diner—which had been a rather quick affair after Dean spotted the husband of one Gwen The Pie Goddess in a back booth, eyes staring daggers in their direction.

"Well," Sam said, taking a bite. "I'm pretty sure we've managed to divide the haystack into several smaller stacks of hay."

"Any closer to finding the needle?"

"Nope."

"Fantastic," Dean muttered sarcastically, dropping onto the edge of the bed.

Sam had enjoyed a good laugh at Dean's expense at the diner until he realized they'd need to separate to canvas the town. His reluctance to part ways had been missed by Dean as he'd rifled through the trunk to find their box of fake IDs.

Realizing that they'd spent too much time in town, had been seen by too many people to claim any legal ties, Dean had shifted all FBI and police badges to the bottom of the box. Sam had taken Dennis DeYoung's Loyola University student ID and headed for the basement of the Capital building to search through the public records for dirt on Mercy's residents.

Dean had grabbed Ian Gillan's _Weekly World News_ press pass and wandered toward the barbershop and its fleet of retirees. As he'd approached the stern features accented by coarse-looking white whiskers, Dean worked through his cover story, his friendliest _aw shucks _grin softening his face and crinkling his eyes, giving him an approachable, trustworthy look.

Dean's natural ability to bullshit had earned him a free shave, a few names of people who had contributed to Daniel Gibson's mayoral campaign, and a coupon for ten percent off his next haircut. As he'd left the barbershop, he'd run into Anna Gibson, offered to buy her a cup of coffee, and led the way to the Bean There, Drunk That, passing Sam on his way to the local newspaper office in the process.

"I see the list of Sara's clients that Anna was kind enough to give me isn't amounting to much," Dean observed, inhaling a cheeseburger slathered with a generous amount of ketchup. "That chick sure did hate Sara," he mumbled, food stuffed into his bulging cheek.

He twisted around to turn the volume of the radio up as Zeppelin's _Your Time Is Gonna Come_ reached his ears.

_"Drive me insane, trouble's gonna come to you. One of these days, and it won't be long, You'll look for me, but, baby, I'll be gone…"_

"Yeah, well, I don't think she killed her," Sam sighed, grinding the heel of his hand into his left eye.

Dean cocked his head to the side. "Nah, not strong enough. And not possessed either."

Sam chuckled disbelievingly. "I still can't believe you did that."

"What? You mean calling the coffee dude _Christo_pher?" Dean shrugged. "She didn't even flinch." He leaned back on the bed, supporting his body with one hand, the cup of coffee in the other. "I tell you I'm friggin' velvety smooth."

"At least we found out that Sara had been married before," Sam pointed out, chewing on the cap of the Sharpie, staring at the name of Sara Tyler's ex-husband on the poster board.

Dean scoffed. "Yeah, to an asshole," he grumbled.

"Not everyone can handle something like that, man," Sam offered.

Dean frowned. "Someone rapes your wife, you go out and hunt that little bitch down." He gripped his coffee cup, pointing at the floor with his index finger. "You hang him up by his balls with barbed wire. You don't freakin' _leave_ her."

Sam looked over his shoulder as Dean stood, wadded up the wrapper from his second cheeseburger and threw it into the trashcan. The angry line folding his brother's brow drew Sam's gaze down to the cold look in Dean's green eyes. Shifting his stance, Sam turned, arms crossed over his chest.

"I agree with you," Sam placated. "I'm just saying that not everyone is put together like that."

"Yeah, well, no shit," Dean took a drink of his coffee. Thinking about Sara Tyler made him inexplicably sad. "We've met our share of assholes in this world." He paused, chewing on his lip. "I wonder if anyone took that damn bird."

Sam nodded. "Some lady named Betty did."

"Yeah?" Dean looked up at him. "How do you know?"

Sam lifted a shoulder. "Called around. It's called _investigating_."

Smirking, Dean turned from him and sat back down on the edge of the bed. Sam watched him another moment, then turned back to the poster board of possibilities.

"Well, since none of the mayoral campaign contributors seem to be panning out, that leaves us with Father Simons' parishioners—"

"Which _you_ stole out from under the nose of a church secretary," Dean grinned. "Way to make your brother proud."

"—and Paul Simons co-workers," Sam finished. "None of which seem to be connected to anyone else."

"Well, we do know that Scammin' Simons supported Paul," Dean reminded him.

"Right," Sam said, darkening the line connecting Father Simons and Paul. "Paul probably knew about what his uncle was doing, blackmailed him."

Dean shrugged. "That actually takes effort, Dude. I think he just played to the good Father's tiny little piece of humanity and threatened to just sit still and die if his uncle didn't support him." Dean finished his coffee. "Not like a priest could let something like that happen."

Sam shook his head, regarding the list. "Y'know… if there is this much… _hate_ in this tiny town… think of what would happen if this demon landed in some place like… New York."

"Aw, Sammy," Dean rim-shot his empty coffee cup into the trash can, not rising from the bed this time. "New York is full of brotherly love!"

"That's Philadelphia," Sam corrected.

"Huh?"

"Philly's the—forget it," Sam dismissed him with a wave.

"Nah, man, I'm talking about the pink slime in _Ghostbusters II_!" Dean's eyebrows went up, his grin transforming his face into that of a twelve-year-old. "C'mon, you remember! Statue of Liberty… Pink slime sprayed all up inside of her and—"

"Dude, seriously."

"—the whole city was singing like… _Silent Night _or something and sending out all these good vibes and just… y'know, _believing_ in humanity…"

Sam pulled his eyebrows together. "Want me to get you a lighter? You could sing Kumbaya… maybe paint some peace signs on our list…"

Dean scratched his eyebrow with his middle finger.

"I'm just glad we ran into this demon in a small town like Mercy is all," Sam sighed, tossing the Sharpie onto the table and sending the St. Patrick's pendant skittering. He sat heavily on the chair, balancing his elbows on his knees and tipping his head forward into his palms. "We got one lead. Just like the last three times. And we're gonna be too late."

"You don't know that, Sam," Dean said softly.

_"Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day. You fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way. Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town, waiting for someone or something to show you the way…"_

Dean leaned over and turned down Pink Floyd in favor of his brother's muffled voice.

"Yeah, I do," Sam replied, his voice directed toward the worn carpet. "This thing, Dean… it's better than us."

"No, it's not," Dean shook his head, and started to shift forward, needing to grab Sam's attention, when Sam's next words froze him.

"We're no closer to figuring out who's gonna burn."

"What?" Dean asked, his voice hard.

Sam pulled his head up, meeting Dean's wounded eyes. "Dante, Dean. The ones guilty of Lust have to walk in flames to purge themselves."

_Of course they do…_ Dean shook his head, standing up. _Fire. Always fire. What the hell is it about fire?!_

"Right," Dean muttered, turning away from Sam. He felt the weight of Sam's sigh, watching from the corners of his eyes as Sam dropped his head back into his waiting hands.

"There's just so much… evil out there, y'know? I mean… more now with the army of demons running around," Sam mumbled. "But there's always just been this undercurrent… this background noise of—"

"Okay, that's it," Dean turned back toward Sam. The frustration of the situation was starting to drown his brother and Dean wasn't about to let that happen. "Enough, Sam." Dean may have been physically destroying himself, but Sam's natural tendency to internalize everything was wearing him down before Dean's eyes. "We have a clue, we have a sin, now let's get dressed and go get this bastard."

"We have a _dance club_," Sam argued, straightening in the chair and looking at Dean.

"Exactly," Dean nodded, crossing to his duffel. "This dude has a twisted sense of humor, but it's at least something to go on."

"Or it's a trap," Sam said, watching Dean sift through his meager collection of denim, flannel, and cotton. "Or it's a red herring."

Dean frowned, pulling out a black, long-sleeved shirt and T-shirt. "A what?"

"A distraction," Sam said. "We go to the dance club, it kills someone here in town."

Dean tossed his clean clothes on the bed. "You are avoiding this club," he said, his voice lilting with the realization.

Sam frowned. "Am not."

"Are too!" Dean argued. "You just don't wanna—"

"What? Stick out like a sore thumb?" Sam stood and started to tear into his own bag of clothes.

Dean chuckled. "Scared?"

"No!" Sam protested pulling out a blue long-sleeved shirt. "I just… I haven't been to a dance club since… since Jess made me go."

"Oh," Dean nodded, looking down. He waited. Sam would talk. He could feel when Sam just needed a second to regroup before he launched. Subtly, Dean leaned against the wall, arms crossed, and waited.

"There was this new club opening up in Palo Alto," Sam elaborated, blue shirt held loosely in his hand, eyes staring blindly at the St. Patrick's pendant. "Jess and her friends were going to go, but her friends were gonna, y'know…"

"Hook up," Dean supplied.

Sam smiled. "Yeah, so… Jess wanted me to come, only, I wasn't much into dancing, so I tried to get out of it, but… she made me."

"She hold out on you?"

Sam looked up at him. "Hold out?"

"Sex, dude. She threaten you with no sex?"

"Jesus, Dean," Sam shook his head, grabbing a clean pair jeans that was free of holes.

Dean laughed. "Dude, Lust is definitely _not_ your sin." He stepped back over to the bed and sat down to pull off his boots. "Hell, I'm not sure you really even have one."

Clothes in hand, Sam paused on his way to the shower. "Everybody is guilty of something, Dean," he said softly.

"I sure know I am," Dean said, dropping his boot on the floor and resting his forearms on his knees, hands hanging loosely between his legs. "I can name four of the big seven off the top of my head that will keep me out of Heaven. If there is a Heaven. If I didn't… y'know, have a penthouse in Hell already."

Sam flinched. "Don't kid about that shit, man. It's not funny."

Dean slid his eyes over his shoulder, his head following slowly. Sam's eyes were young, his chin trembling almost imperceptibly.

"I know," Dean sighed. "But sometimes…" He shook his head. "Sometimes I think that the universe has a real fucked up sense of humor and if I don't laugh… I'll explode or something…"

Sam turned away, his jaw tight. He moved toward the bathroom once more, pausing when Dean took a breath.

"Sometimes I wonder," Dean whispered.

"Wonder what?" Sam asked, his hand on the doorway.

Dean shrugged, looking down. "If I'm getting exactly what I deserve."

The silence was broken only by the sound of the DJ announcing another long set of classic rock coming their way.

"Go on," Dean said, nodding in Sam's direction. "We got at least an hour's drive to this place and with all that girly hair it's gonna take you forever to get ready."

Sam's hands tightened on the wooden doorframe of the bathroom, his lips twitching with the need to say something… the need to _do_ something. He watched Dean's eyes as his brother stared at him a moment more, then Dean dropped his head, turning back around. Sam felt a tremble of anger low in his belly and he swallowed the heat that was climbing the back of his throat. Looking away from Dean's stiff back, he stepped into the bathroom and slammed the door shut behind him.

Dean flinched at the sound of the door, waiting quietly until he heard what was unmistakably the sound of something being thrown against the tile wall of the shower. He waited another moment and heard the low growl of frustration muffled almost immediately by the rush of water through pipes as Sam turned on the shower. Another moment and Dean knew Sam's temper tantrum had run its course. He didn't blame his brother and knew he'd be less inclined to contain his anger as Sam did; he only hoped that what he'd heard hit the wall had been something other than Sam's hand.

Dean used the time alone in the room to dress, having showered and shaved earlier in the day. By the time Sam exited the steam-filled bathroom, Dean was slouched in the chair next to the table, John's journal in his hands, dressed in black and denim, fading bruises accenting eyes bright with purpose. He looked up at Sam.

"Aw, aren't you pretty," Dean grinned, setting John's journal back on the table. He stood up, quick eyes check Sam's knuckles for marks. They were bruise-free. "Hearts are breaking _wide_ open all over Oklahoma to-night!"

Sam's grin was reluctant. "Shut up." He grabbed the matchbook with _Castitas_ written on the inside and shoved it into his pocket.

"Seriously, Sammy," Dean smirked, reaching for his wallet. His hand hovered over his .45 for a moment. "You clean up real nice."

"Jerk. You're taking your gun?" Sam asked as Dean's fingers closed around the silver barrel.

"Bitch, and yes," Dean said. "I don't care if it is a dance club—I'm not walking in there naked."

"What if they find it?"

Dean held out another one to Sam as well and then grabbed the doorknob with his free hand. "They won't find it."

"But what if—"

"Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"Breathe."

www

**The Inferno** was set back from the road, a parking lot the size of a small airport between the stone front of the building and the creeping traffic that currently held the Impala captive. Fleetwood Mac's _Big Love _filled the otherwise silent interior of the car, Lindsey Buckingham's nimble fingers dancing out insanity across the guitar strings.

Dean sighed for the hundredth time, his silver ring clicking on the metal of the steering wheel as he marked the minutes. Sam's eyes were trained on the club, or, more specifically, on the periodic bursts of flames that shot out of the spires flanking either side of the massive steel-looking entrance.

_"I wake up alone, with it all… I wake up, but only to fall…"_

After what felt like an eternity, it was their turn to pull into the parking lot and Dean breathed a sigh of relief.

"Finally!"

"Can you believe this place?" Sam asked suddenly, as if his brother's voice was the permission he'd been waiting for to speak. "I mean… first, I'd hate to be tenants in that apartment building we passed—"

"Their fault for living next to this super-sonic stereo from hell…," Dean interjected, shutting off the car and climbing out.

"—and second, how in the hell are we going to find someone from Mercy? There has to be…" Sam's eyes darted around the parking lot as more cars pulled in, more people got out, walked past them, and headed up to the large doors.

"Not to be the Grand Marshal in this parade of doubt you've got goin' on, Sam, but," Dean shoved his hands in his pockets, looking up and down the line of people waiting to show their IDs and gain entrance, "finding _one_ person guilty of Lust in here—"

He stopped as the doors opened and two girls walked out, a chest-lurching bass beat of music and flashes of strobe lights and theatre smoke following them. As one gave her valet ticket to a young guy in a red vest, the other pursed her lips and scanned the waiting crowd with large blue eyes.

When her eyes landed on Dean, he saw them literally heat up. Her generous lips tilted up at the edges and she slowly roamed his frame from lips to boots, then crept back up. Dean felt his stomach coil under her gaze and his answering smile was boldly suggestive.

"C'mon," the blue-eyed girl's friend said as their car was pulled up. Blue-eyes stepped off the curb, her short leather skirt inching up slightly with the motion and she kept her eyes on Dean as she walked around to the passenger side.

Dean maintained eye contact, turning slightly to watch as she stepped into the car and closed the door. Sam observed this silent interchange with an incredulous bend of his brow. As the car pulled away, Dean turned back to his brother, bending his knees slightly, and mouthed _oh, my God_…

Sam shook his head as they moved forward in line. "This is gonna be—"

"Fun."

"I was gonna say tricky."

"Tricky is fun," Dean grinned and flashed his ID at the bouncer.

Sam did the same and they handed over their cover charge, which Dean grumbled was highway freakin' robbery—however, by that time the doors were open and the music and lights sucked away all sound and the majority of sight as they stepped through, cloaking his complaint from the bouncers.

"This isn't music!" Dean yelled over the rhythmic beat. The club DJ had timed the light show throughout the cavernous room so that the strobes caused him to blink in time with the music as the bass vibrated his teeth.

"It's Oakenfold," Sam yelled back.

"What the hell's an Oakenfold?"

"Paul Oakenfold. He's a DJ," Sam yelled, bumping Dean forward with his shoulder and scanning the darkness for a place to stand that would allow them to see as much of the club as possible. "_Amsterdam_. Jess used to listen to it a lot."

Dean spotted a gap between the bodies at one of the shiny steel mini-bars directly across from them and reached back to snag Sam's sleeve and pull him along. He was not a fan of Techno, but as they made their way around and between the bodies twisting and sliding around them, Dean had to admit that the beat thrumming through his chest matched the rhythm of certain other activities he _was_ a fan of.

As they elbowed for position between a biker and a Goth chick, a harsh-tempoed, Electronica mix of Billy Squire's _The Stroke _melded easily from the end of _Amsterdam_ and teased up a grin on Dean's face.

"Now _this_ is music," he leaned over and yelled in Sam's ear.

Sam hitched a hip on a free barstool, bringing his face level with Dean's and shook his head. Dean caught the eye of the harried bartender and lifted two fingers, then pointed to the tap. Nodding, the bartender pulled two beers, handed them to Dean and relieved him of his money in less than two minutes.

Dean turned, resting his back against the smooth metal of the bar top and handed Sam his beer. Sam's hazel eyes were roaming the flashing darkness, alert, watchful, anxious. A shapely blonde walked slowly past the bar, looking for an opening to step in and order a drink.

She paused in front of Sam and Dean saw definite interest in her expression as she took in Sam's hazel eyes and smooth face. Sam didn't even seem to notice her. Dean drew his attention by helpful jabbing him in the shoulder with his elbow.

"Ow, hey—"

The blonde smiled and Dean shot his eyes to Sam. Sam smiled back, then looked away. The blonde pouted, shrugged, then moved away.

"Christ, Sammy, lighten up," Dean yelled at him over Billy's stuttered instructions booming through the club. "Have a little fun, man!"

"We're not here to have _fun_, Dean," Sam shot back at him, frowning. "We're here to stop someone from getting killed."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Like we're really going to be able to find anyone in here."

Sam's eyes had once again resumed their ceaseless motion. Seeing a possibility, he nudged Dean and jutted his chin toward a man in a business suit rolling his wedding ring off of his finger and shoving it into his pocket. Dean watched, grinned, and pointed with his beer in the opposite direction as a red-headed woman did the same thing. Sam sighed, then took another drink of his beer.

_Why would it lead us here… what is it trying to prove? That we're all just led around by our base instincts?_ Sam watched the bodies pulsing in quick beat to the music, the lights dancing across the manufactured smoke and shimmering in his eyes, making it hard to focus on just one image, one person, one sensation. Everything moved, hummed, shook. Even the hairs on his arms and across the back of his neck trembled with the tactile feel of the music that surrounded them.

"Dean?"

The brother's jerked in unison at the sound of Dean's name. Standing to Dean's left was a familiar-looking brunette, a tray of Jello shots resting just below her black halter-top-clad chest. As they openly stared, she tilted her head, her large brown eyes amused, her lips folding back into a smile.

"You don't remember me," she said, a soft southern lilt in her voice.

"Sure, uh—" Dean floundered, his eyes widening as if he hoped her name would be beamed to him on the pulsing lights of the club.

"Emily," she supplied. Her eyes danced to Sam then back to Dean. "From the warehouse."

"Right!" Dean grinned. "Emily, of course." He looked over at Sam and mouthed _beer trough girl_. Sam raised a _no shit, Sherlock_ eyebrow.

Dean turned back to Emily, taking her in without moving his eyes. Her slight build reminded him of Cassie; her dark hair and eyes gave her a slightly exotic air. The smirk that tipped the edges of her lips drew him in and kept his eyes on her.

Studying Dean a moment as though trying to decide something, Emily stepped forward, unhooking the shot tray from the strap securing it to her neck and handed it over Dean's head to the bartender behind him. She reached out a hand to Dean.

"C'mon," she smiled as an ethereal voice filtered through another Techno beat to tickle the fine hairs on Dean's ears.

"What? Dance?"

"Well, yeah," Emily smiled and Dean felt his blood heat up at the hint of touch that smile implied. "You're at a _dance_ club…"

Dean dropped his eyelids, and tipped his head back slightly, peering at Emily through his lashes with a sly grin. "Girl's got a point, Sammy."

Emily took Dean's beer from him and handed it to Sam.

"You don't mind, right?" she asked, not looking at Sam.

"Wait, but… Dean, I—"

Sam was left protesting to emptiness as Emily pulled Dean away from the bar, fingers threaded in his, and started toward the dance floor. Dean allowed himself to be led, enjoying the view of her nearly-bare back, the black strings of her halter top bowed across her spine. As they moved through the throng of people, Emily twisted her fingers so that she could pull his hand close to the small of her back and he rested his fingers on the edge of a tattoo peaking out from the top of her leather pants.

She turned when her boots hit the textured steel of the floor, pulling Dean's hand around her slim waist and stepping up close to him. Trailing her fingers up his arms, she slowly wrapped her hands at the base of his neck and started to move her shoulders to the airy beat of the music.

Dean set his hands on her hips and with just a slight pressure from his fingers, slowed her down. Emily's brown eyes flashed up at him, surprised, but Dean caught her gaze with green intensity, his look a clear _I'll drive, sweetheart_.

Curling his shoulders forward, Dean pulled Emily's small frame against him, hip bones touching, and slowly crawled his fingers to the small of her back. Tipping his head forward, he rested his forehead on hers, holding her eyes with his gaze, promising heat and offering silence.

_"Heaven holds a sense of wonder and I wanted to believe that I'd get caught up when the rage in me subsides…"_

The bodies around them moved at twice the speed of Dean and Emily. Taking a breath and leaving her lips parted, Emily rolled her shoulders and hips, matching Dean's slow rhythm perfectly, her fingers trailing leisurely down the curved indentation of his spine, curling into miniature arches against the muscles corded there as the beat of the music picked up and pounded through them.

_"I can't help this longing… comfort me… I can't hold it all in… if you won't let me…"_

Dean ignored the discomfort her fingers tightening against his bruises caused, he ignored the mass of humanity around him, he ignored the reason he was there in the first place. For one moment, he simply allowed himself to feel, to breathe in the scent of the woman in his arms, relax into the softness of her body.

The pulse of the club seemed to chant to him… _it's all gonna end…_ Sensation, thrill, love, lust, sex, kisses, scent, taste, texture, warmth, light… living. He was going to lose it all. And the reason for that was sitting somewhere behind him watching for an opportunity to stop death.

Pulling Emily's soft breath into his mouth and tightening the muscles in his back against her nimble fingers, Dean knew it was worth it. Sam was worth it.

Sam had kept his eyes on his brother for several moments as Dean had followed his dance partner, then with a partially disgusted, partially envious sigh, he turned on his stool and set both beers down on the smooth surface of the bar. Midst the chaos of this hunt and with a death sentence looming, Dean suddenly seemed more alive than Sam had felt since… Cold Oak.

Sam shifted slightly to the side as two uber-perfumed, impressively-coiffed, and scantily-clan women maneuvered closer to the bar and called out their drink orders.

"Slim picking's tonight," the smoky-voiced one closest to Sam commented. "Too old or too young."

_Terrific, Dean gets the girl who smells like Jess… I get Thelma and Louise marinated in Obsession_, Sam thought sarcastically, leaning his arms on the hard surface of the bar and burying his nose in his beer to ward off the flowery scent surrounding the women.

"I don't know, check out that guy there at the edge of the dance floor—looks like a reformed cowboy or something."

"God, yes. Look at those legs… oh, my… you see how he's moving her? How he's like two beats behind everyone else?"

_Oh, God, kill me now_, Sam groaned silently, closing his eyes and holding very still as he was forced to listen as his brother was described as seen through the eyes of the women next to him.

"Oh for the love of… mmm_MM_. I just wanna _chew_ on that jaw."

"Seriously? I think my clothes just fell off," cracked the one furthest from Sam. "Look how he's staring at her."

"Damn, it's hot in here."

"That is the sexiest thing I think I've ever seen—how he's kinda wrapped around her like that? Only he's barely touching her."

"Oh, he's touching her, honey," said smoky-voice. "What I want to know is… _where_ is he touching her to make her fingers grip his back like that?"

Curiosity getting the better of him, Sam turned on his barstool and peered through the smoke and the flashing lights to find his brother. The music shifted to another beat and Sam saw Dean straighten as if to pull away, but Emily slid into the hollow of his body and kept him moving to the slow rhythm he'd carved out of the thrumming beat that surrounded them.

Sam knew that even when Jessica had worked him over with her sexy bedroom eyes, he had never been able to move like his brother was right now. He'd seen women blush and stutter at the sight of Dean's smile and he suddenly realized by the complete focus Dean had on Emily at present that even if he couldn't remember their names later, when Dean was with a woman, for _that_ moment, that woman was his world.

Pulling his bottom lip in, Sam picked up his beer and started to roam his eyes around the club once more, looking at the other dancers, the bouncers wandering the crowd, the shot girls offering libations, the men in black and women in leather—anywhere but at Dean. He worked to bring his focus back to the purpose for being there and away from melancholy thoughts of futures lost—his, Jessica's, Dean's...

It was hard to focus between the thick haze of smoke curling in and out of the hypnotic pop of multicolored strobes and the bodies gyrating in perfect sync to the relentless, visceral rhythm. A rhythm which hammered right into his core and enticed him to just leave his damn bar stool and join in on what Dean had called 'fun.'

That was why Sam was so surprised that he was able to sense the vibration of his cell phone through his pocket. Everything else already seemed to be humming with its own vibration and he jumped slightly when he realized that he was receiving a call, the frequency of the cell phone vibration just slightly off from the one pulsating through everything around him.

Sam set down his drink, fishing out the phone quickly and flipping it open. He pressed it to his ear, hard, hoping to shut out the rest of the noise around him. The club exploded into higher-pitched ,otherworldly synth, and Sam doubted he'd be able to hear anyone on the other end. He dipped his chin into his chest, covering his open ear with a hand to muffle what he could.

"Hello?" Sam asked, suddenly thinking that he should have checked the caller I.D. Very few people had their number, and the only one he could think of who'd need to use it was out on the club floor. Sam tilted his head to the side, grabbing a visual of Dean just to make sure.

"How does it feel?"

Sam could barely make out the voice; he ducked his head back into the noise-canceling wall of his body and the bar.

"Who is this?" Sam yelled into the receiver.

The voice was indistinguishable against the harsh back beat that penetrated through the hand cupped over his ear, but the deep timbre was markedly male. "How does it feel, Samuel? To be the witness?"

Sam felt his gut tighten and his shoulder blades snapped together as he sat up straight. _Holy shit! _

_So much for looking for the murderer_… He'd found _them_.

His gaze snapped back to the dance floor and it was as if Dean felt his eyes. He watched as Dean straightened, slow his movements to a stop and tentatively stepped away from Emily. His eyes locked with Sam's, a sudden interest and concern creased in his brow. Emily paused as well, grabbing his arm to get him to return his focus on her, pressing her body back against his playfully. Dean took her arm and bent down to say something in her ear and then pushed his way through the mass of undulating flesh and sweat to make it back to Sam.

Sam watched Dean approach, his brother disappearing into the black mass of bodies every time the lights above flashed out. Sam felt his ability to think straight return the closer Dean got, and when Dean made it to the bar, Sam was able to get his eyes to leave his brother and scan the surrounding area. Now that Dean was out of the crowd, Sam could focus on finding out where the killer was calling from. The line had remained maddeningly silent, and Sam wondered if he'd lost the murderer, if the call had just been a tease.

Dean stood in front of Sam, eyes conveying that he wanted to know what was up. Sam thinned out his lips, turning back into the bar to try to hear better, and Dean slid onto the stool next to him.

"You didn't answer my question," Sam threw out there, half-dreading and simultaneously hoping for an answer.

"You didn't answer mine," the voice returned, and Sam again felt his gut twist.

He wasn't afraid of whoever or whatever this was, but he didn't like the fact that it had found them first. It had established contact first and it could be anywhere. Even more disturbing was that it knew his name… knew that they were looking for it. Another long pause and the voice started in again.

"I like your name, Samuel." The voice dug in, almost as if the caller had heard Sam's thoughts on _it_ knowing his name. "Know what it means? _God hears_… I know, ironic, huh? Especially since you _know_ in your heart… he doesn't."

Sam felt the muscles in his shoulders tighten, his jaw going taut with those words. "What do you want?" He asked, the question boiling up as a growl from somewhere deep inside.

His attention was suddenly taken away from the call by a girl slamming into the bar beside him. She was laughing uncontrollably, obviously running on a few too many. The act of her pressing into the bar was pulling down her already low-cut blouse and practically spilling her breasts onto the counter top. She looked over at Sam through unfocused eyes before moving closer to him suggestively. Sam pulled his gaze down and away from he, putting his elbow against the bar and turning on the stool toward Dean.

"Just… look around, Samuel," the voice spilled into his ear like liquid. "Look at the filth beside you. Woman like that would have you right here if you just asked her to spread her legs. She probably wouldn't even need you to buy her a drink."

Dean was still waiting, impatiently. His eyes were filled with anticipation, looking for some sort of signal from Sam, some kind of indication of what he was supposed to do. Sam knew that not being able to hear this had to be killing Dean by the way his brother moved in his seat. Sam asked Dean to wait with a _trust me_ look, and then turned back into the bar, jaw working around the thoughts that were flooding his mind with a deluge of questions.

"You missed his exit." The voice continued to grate through Sam's mind, competing with the music. "He's not here anymore, Samuel."

"Who? The next one? The next person you've deemed worthy of execution, you sick son of a bitch. You—"

"You think I'm a monster… but I'm just a messenger."

Sam's head dropped in a half-nod, eyes on fire, the phone shaking in his hand against his ear. He knew he was close to the caller, but he couldn't do anything but listen to the killer give a self-righteous sermon about whose life was worth living.

"What gives you the right?" Sam asked. "Huh? What gives you the right to play God?"

Sam could hear the chuckle that followed his question through the receiver, and it only added to the sick anger building at his core. Sam tightened and relaxed the fist at his side, waiting for a response. Dean was watching Sam's expression change, his eyebrows pulled together in a fierce frown, trying to figure out what was being said from his brother's near-silent, one-sided conversation.

"How about I let you and your brother decide on this one?" The voice challenged. "Two blocks down. The abandoned Holcum Apartments. If you run, you might be able to get front row seats."

The line cut and without a word to Dean, Sam slammed the phone shut and pushed off his bar stool, breaking into a run. Dean wasn't more than a beat behind him, pressing through the crowd and ignoring the annoyed protests from those they shoved aside. Dean didn't have to ask what was going on. From the way his brother had spoken, the words he'd said, Dean knew that their killer had somehow gotten a hold of Sam's phone number and knew who they were, where they were… and was now sending them somewhere.

Sam's determination had been present in the tight lines of his face, and Dean knew that even though he was unsure what exactly had been said on the other end of that phone, they now had a shot at saving the next person in this twisted game. He instinctively knew he had to stay close to Sam—not only to protect him from this killer, but also from the determination he glimpsed in Sam's eyes. He knew from experience that it could quickly boil into irrational thinking and action.

Sam barreled through one of the side door and out into the alley, almost slamming into one of the bouncers watching the entrance. The man jumped away from the fast swinging door, watching it slam into the brick siding with a loud crack.

"Watch it, asshole!" He barked, stepping forward and squaring his shoulders. "What the hell is—?"

"Where are the Holcum Apartments?" Sam asked, stepping forward as well, matching the man in height, but most definitely not in width or overall girth. The guy looked like he could punch holes through cement with his fists.

"They're abandoned," the bouncer announced. He looked between the two of them, curiosity over why they'd want to go there visibly piqued.

"We don't care," Dean started, coming to stand with a shoulder between Sam and the bouncer. "Just tell us which way."

The bouncer turned and pointed down the alley. "Turn right at the end of the—"

Sam had already taken off before the man could finish, Dean catching up in just a few powerful strides. They sprinted as hard and as fast as they could, arms and legs pumping in strong unison until the chain-linked fence surrounding the perimeter of the Holcum property came into view.

Sam slowed down just enough to ensure he wouldn't plow into the fencing, then launched himself at the top, hooking in his fingers and using the momentum to push upward and twist his body over onto the other side. He landed with an _umph _of air escaping his lips, kneeling to take the brunt of the impact, and then pushed up from his starting line runner's position back into a full sprint. He heard the fence clank with the movement of Dean's weight, just before his brother hit the ground, mirroring Sam's landing and push off.

They ascended the front steps of the apartments and Sam grabbed the metal handles before his eyes landed on the lock and chain wrapped through them. He pulled at the doors in frustration, rattling them a few times before slamming back the large metal lock with an angry grunt.

Dean moved around the side of the building and saw a sign propped up against one of the trash bins which read _Holcum Apartments: Home is Inside These Doors. _Just above it was a fire escape, pulled down to where with a jump, they could grab the bottom rung.

"Sam!" Dean called out in a harsh whisper, motioning with his head toward the alley between the apartments and the adjacent building.

Sam followed him to the fire escape, eyes trailing the metal frame up to the wide-open second story window. There was probably another way in, but Sam didn't want to take the time to explore their options, not with time tightening like a noose around the next victim's neck. In one leap, Sam was able to grab hold of the bottom rung of the ladder and pull himself up on the first set of stairs.

The thought that this could be a trap resonated through Sam for an instant as his boots connected with each stair, reverberating the entire structure, making it nearly impossible to approach with much of anything resembling stealth. But the words of the killer still rang through Sam's mind in droves.

_If you run…_

Sam wasn't concerned about himself. Not when he was fueled forward by the mocking phrase and the burn to _not _be there one second too late, to _not _arrive just after the next victim had expired on his watch. If there was anything that he could do to save the remaining ones, he would. He wasn't going to fail this one. All thoughts of running right into the killer's hands were drowned as the incessant reminder of past failures tearing through him accompanied the thrashing surge of his own blood.

Dean had taken hold of the fire escape behind Sam, using his momentum to push off the wall next to the garbage bin. Sam was already a whole flight ahead of him, his long legs affording him the ability to take the steps two or three at a time. It was as Dean mounted the first step that he smelled the gasoline. It was pungent enough that it burned into his eyes and nostrils as it wafted on the air from somewhere nearby.

He clambered after Sam, trying to keep up, his senses warning him that he needed to override Sam's lead. They needed to stop moving for one second and think this through.

But Sam was through the second story window in a quick duck and bound, and Dean followed, reaching for Sam's jacket to try to hold him back for a beat. Dean's hand shot out for his brother as he crawled through the window, but stopped just short as Sam halted and Dean heard something splash against his boots when he set his feet on the floor.

_The hell?_

The smell was overwhelming and Dean was immediately and acutely aware that was coming from _everywhere_. Everything was coated in gasoline. The floors and walls glistened in the orange hue of the street lights filtering through the broken windows and disheveled horizontal blinds. From the dark stains on the tattered sectional to the liquid pooling about the rubber soles of his boots, Dean took in and assessed their present predicamentthrough startled, dilated pupils.

_Oh shit!_

The thought crossed his mind like a magnum bullet through the skull, his muscles knotting in survival-triggered tension, his eyes searching for movement. This wasn't simply nine kinds of crazy, this was severely fucked up. _Get out! We have to get out now!_

"Sam," Dean started, frozen to where he stood, just inside the window, hesitant to leave what was currently their only exit.

Dean's eyes adjusted to the darkness giving sharper definition to the shadows. One of them separated from the formless dark of the corner and shuffled toward the center of the room. Sam reached behind him slowly, lifting the back of his shirt, and wrapping his hand around the grip of the hand gun he'd concealed there as they'd left the motel. Common sense reared up, smacking him like the smell that was saturating everything. He couldn't fire anything in here… one shot, one flash from the barrel, and they would both go up like dry cinder. Sam immediately dropped his hand back to his side and slid one foot behind the other. It was only a few more steps back out the window…

An uncertainty that made him pause, just in front of Dean; the room, the way the shadow moved, slow and unsteady, the quiet… Both brothers stood still, waiting and trying not to make any sudden movements, attempting to feel out the presence that had materialized from the black. If this was the killer, why hadn't he attacked already?

The figure came forward a few more steps, his bare feet illuminated first, gasoline seeping up between his toes, then his shivering mess of a body was exposed in the bars of light centered like a spot light on the room. He was naked, save his boxers, which clung, wet, to his legs. He was soaked in accelerant, his flesh quaking and jumping with every spastic shudder as he muttered unintelligibly to himself. His eyes remained on the floor, lips moving without ceasing, his words incoherent. Each utterance was punctuated with a whimper.

Dean and Sam fell into mirroring a defensive positions, a silent understand passing between them. Each took a side of the man, approaching slowly with hands up, palms out and fingers spread to show the man they weren't going to hurt him. It was vividly apparent that something else already had.

_Alright. Just gotta…calm down the crazy…Bring him back from the edge, _Dean thought, before the man looked up at him. He looked like he could be anyone Dean had ever met, not too much older, clean shaven, tall and lanky…but his eyes; they tore into Dean with wild fear. A fear Dean knew he wouldn't be able to save this guy from no matter what he said to him.

"I-I knew you'd be coming." The man's voice wavered unsteadily, jumping around more than the muscles beneath his skin. His eyes volleyed back and forth between the brothers, anxious.

Sam had regretted plowing forward head-first into full-on hero mode the second he realized that Dean and he were standing in a room drenched in gasoline. But seeing this guy, mentally shell-shocked but still alive, he was renewed in his hope that they could actually save one of the Mercy residents. He started to think of ways to get all three of them out of there, mind divided between keeping Dean and himself from a trap and reaching out to the man before them. This time they weren't showing up too late. This time they could save the victim from becoming the victim.

"How did you know we'd be coming?" Sam asked, his hands still poised non-threateningly in front of him.

The man clamped his eyes shut, recoiling at Sam's question. "The man… in the shadows…" He choked out, tears moving along the stressed creases of his face. "H-he told me you'd be here."

A muffled cry came from somewhere above, finding its way to their ears by the exposed air ducts in the crumbling ceiling. The haunting sound was a wounded sob, and it was amplified by the nakedness of the room. Dean's eyes flicked upward through the holes in the ceiling, searching for what—_who_—was making that sound. There was someone else in the abandoned building with them. Dean shifted his eyes back at the man, looking for an explanation. Instead the man backed up a few steps.

Sam tried to continue talking with the man, stepping forward again, wary of the way the man grabbed at his own arms like he was trying to protect himself from them and tear off his own skin at the same time. He started to speak under his breath again. This time Sam caught that it was the word _sixteen_, over and over again.

"Hey, what's your name?" Sam tried, eyes soft, trying hard to let the man know it would be all right.

"Ryan…" He spit out the name, phlegm speckling his bottom lip.

"Ryan, hey… just, take it easy, man. We're not gonna hurt you…"

More whispers, _sixteensixteensixteensixteen_… It was apparent that Ryan had officially checked out. Sam glanced over at Dean whose eyes kept shifting between the man and the ceiling where the cries had momentarily ceased.

"Who else is here?" Dean asked. It came across as a command. Instinct told him that there was something even more off about this situation than a half-naked guy standing in a gasoline-infused room, and suddenly Dean wasn't so sure they had the 'victim' in front of them. "There's someone else here, isn't there?"

"Dean—"

"What's going on, Ryan?" Dean demanded.

The man looked down at his feet, continuing to chant the number sixteen.

"Sixteen what?" Sam asked.

"No…" Ryan pressed his hands against the sides of his skull.

"Sixteen what, Ryan?" Dean pressed further.

"I raped them!" Ryan screamed in near-hysterics. "I-I raped s-sixteen women o-over the last f-five years! I fucked them when I wanted them, and I—I…I have to b-burn… The man in the shadows… he said… he said to be f-forgiven I have to burn…" He sobbed out the last words.

_I have to burn…_

Sam knew that the punishment for those guilty of Lust was to walk within flames to purge themselves. This, the apartment and the accelerant… the guy had his own punishment all set up. The killer wasn't standing there, drenching the man in gasoline, poised with a match. This man was to be his _own_ judge, his _own_ jury… his own executioner.

_Someone rapes your wife, you go out and hunt that little bitch down…_

Sam clenched his jaw, looking over at Dean to see that his brother had paled, fists curling tighter at his sides. Dean looked as sick as Sam felt at that moment, and Dean didn't know as much as Sam did. He didn't know about the details of the call.

The voice on the phone had told them that they'd get to _decide on this one_. This had been what the voice had meant by that. Looking at the man now, watching him confess what he'd done and then cower like the waste of flesh that he was…

Sam wanted to be the one to strike the match.

All concern for getting the man out alive was lost, draining away from him as thoughts of letting the man get what he deserved collided in his mind, and Sam found himself getting closer to the window and further away from Ryan.

Dean remained silent and still, thinking about Sara, about how her divorce had been because of what someone like this man in front of him had done to her. The soft lines of her smile from the photographs on her computer were forever burned into his mind, asking for someone to put an end to all of this. _You son of a bitch…_

"Who else is here?" Dean's voice carried the question low, but with enough force and anger that Ryan's features twisted in deeper remorse.

He pointed toward the apartment above, his finger shaking so much it was practically a blur. "Sh-She was supposed t-to be… the seventeenth."

"Shit," Dean breathed. Without a word or glance to Sam, he turned and took off through the window and onto the fire-escape.

Sam snapped around, watched Dean ascend the stairs toward the third floor and started to back toward the window himself. He paused only to think though the fact that the man still could light the place on fire. He had to buy Dean some time to get himself and the woman out from above them.

Every twitch of Ryan's hand forced Sam's eyes back to him. Sam didn't bother to hide the disdain from his hardened features. Amazing how two minutes ago, he had been trying to comfort the mentally shredded man. Now he found himself hoping that once Dean and he were clear of the building that Ryan would go through with it.

Sam mentally stepped back at those thoughts. It scared him that he knew he could take a life, that he could do it again. This anger toward Ryan was only fueling that knowledge and giving it more backing. Sam couldn't let this man take his own life… He deserved to be brought to justice, and Sam knew that he needed to find some form of mercy from within or succumb to another nightmarish moment where he'd find himself standing above another… _Jake_.

"Could I—" Ryan started, breaking the silence floating around Sam's thoughts. "Could I get a match?"

Sam shot the man a startled look, no longer hiding the fact that he thought the man had lost it. Sam knew he'd lost it years ago when he'd taken advantage of those women. Now it appeared that his guilt was consuming him, eating away to the point of dementia, but making amends by lighting himself on fire wasn't going to make things any better.

"The m-messenger told me you'd g-give me one…"

Light slowly dawning as pieces of the jigsaw puzzle he and Dean had been gathering all week fell into place, Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out the matchbook. **The Inferno** was glinting up at him from the cover like it was enjoying an inside joke.

_Oh God…I wanted to strike the match… _He'd almost played right into the killer's plans. The realization was almost overwhelming. If he'd honestly gone with his gut, he'd have gone vigilante without hesitation. Ashamed and shaken by how well the killer apparently knew him, Sam stuffed the matches back into his pocket and shook his head. _You knew…you son of a bitch, you knew I would be capable…_

"P-please…give me the match." Ryan stuttered out.

"No. I'm not gonna give you a match," Sam breathed out, still trying to wrap his head around what was going on. His softer features returned, but with the hardened edge of one seeking justice. "Ryan, I don't know what _the messenger_ told you… but let's think this though. Let's get out of here so you can go to the police with—"

Ryan lowered his head and nodded, a sad smile spreading across his manic features. "It'll be okay… I was prepared for you to make that choice."

The implications of that statement were lost for a second before Sam realized too late what was about to happen.

"No!"

Before Sam could do more than reach out a hand, Ryan pulled a match from where he'd concealed it within his fist and struck it with his thumbnail.

The entire room went up in a bluish-white ball of flame, tearing about the man's body, encasing it in a pillar of flame and exploding up into the ceiling and out into the room. The force of the combustion slammed into Sam as he dove through the window toward the fire-escape. He careened into the railing on a dive and roll, shoulders and back connecting with the metal grating as the flames broke through after him. He felt something tear, a sharp, biting pain penetrating his left shoulder blade. Sam buried his face into his sleeve, body pressed against the stairs as the air sizzled around him, heat searing the exposed hair on his arms before the flames retracted back into the room.

Sam lifted his head, staring with horrified eyes into the room where Ryan had been. Flames greedily ate through the air, hungry in its search to devour. The floor, covered in fire, was moving like liquid. The fire had climbed up the walls and was consuming its way through the ceiling… _Dean!_

Sam pushed up and scrambled up the fire escape toward the third floor, ignoring the sharp, hot sting from the gash on his shoulder. He could feel the blood soak through his shirt along with the sweat which was cooling against his nearly flash-seared flesh.

The third story window was broken and Sam ducked under the shattered panes and into the room. The first thing he saw was a bed frame, no mattress, and a girl tied down. Dean was standing next to her, still cutting her loose, her feet and left hand already free, the gag that had been in her mouth hanging loosely around her neck. Her shirt had been ripped open, and she was clutching it together at its tattered edges to keep from being exposed with her free hand and was pulling her legs up against her short skirt. She turned a tear stained face toward Sam upon entry, eyes wide with fear that her attacker was coming back, a startled cry sliding past her lips before Sam came closer so she could see that he wasn't Ryan.

"The whole place is going up, Dean!" Sam announced. He watched his brother's shoulders tense in response, the blade in his hand working faster to free the young woman.

"I know!" Dean yelled back just before severing the last restraint. He could feel the heat rising through the floors, smell the smoke which was already starting to filter into the third floor.

After returning the blade to his boot, Dean quickly gathered up the girl in his arms. She clung to him, pressing her tear slick face into the soft flesh of Dean neck. She was trembling, spilling more hot tears against his shoulder. Dean set his jaw, looking at Sam with an expression void of any compassion for the one who had burned below them. The only emotion present was for their current purpose laced behind his eyes. They had to get the woman out of there.

Sam went out the window first, offering open arms for Dean to set the girl in so he could climb out. Dean passed her through, shifting her weight into Sam and watching the broken glass before he started through himself. He was in mid-duck when something caught his eye—a movement past one of the doors in the hallway, a grayish blur from one room to the next. He even thought he'd caught the sound of footsteps rushing hastily toward the other side of the building.

"Someone else is up here," Dean told Sam, before pushing back off the window pane and back into the building. He didn't miss the way that Sam's face bunched in protest.

"Dean! Don't—"

There was no point in calling after him and no way for Sam to physically bring him back now as Dean disappeared into the hall. The shivering bundle in his arms was his responsibility and Dean would have to be on his own until Sam could get her to safety. He swore under his breath at Dean's stubborn convictions, angry that he was unable to do much about it except get the young woman away from there.

_And who was the one who jumped head first into a room filled with gasoline?_ Sam thought to quell his anger. All their differences aside—and hopefully to their gain and not adding toward their end—they were more alike then either of them were willing to admit.

Sam shifted the girl over his shoulder, gritting his teeth against the pull of the fresh cut along his shoulder blade. With a labored grunt, he settled her weight enough so he could move, heading down the fire-escape as quickly as he could.

Avoiding the windows, Sam pressed to one side of the escape, keeping a hand along the railing to guide him as he entered the blinding billows of smoke that had enveloped the second floor. Breaking through below them with his descent, he stopped just before the structure ended in a ladder, and helped the girl down onto the grating.

"I'm gonna lower you down, all right? Take hold of my arm..." Sam tried to talk her through the process, not sure if she was in any state to comply.

She nodded, whimpering slightly as Sam took one of her arms. They started down the ladder and when it ended, Sam hooked his arm around one of the rungs and helped her slide down his other arm, straining to keep from letting go even though his back was fighting him.

She dropped a few feet, her bare feet colliding with the pavement and she buckled, letting out cry. Sam let go of the ladder, dropping beside her and helping her to her feet. Above them a few of the second story windows blew out, raining glass down about them. Sam stooped, sweeping her up off the glass-covered pavement, and started into a run in one fluid movement.

They made it to the edge of the property, the chain-linked fence barring their escape by any easily accessible means. In her state, he wasn't going to ask her to climb it, and he knew that if he called someone out here to help they'd take care of her. He set her down to dig out his cell phone and immediately she grabbed hold of his shirt sleeve in a death grip.

"Don't leave me," she cried, more tears spilling from her terrified eyes. "Please!"

Sam checked her over for any injuries, trying to comfort her as he did so by asking her if she was hurt. It appeared that she was crying more from the shock and the fear of what had happened to her then from any physical pain or injury.

Sam took out his cell, eyes darting back toward the building, watching for Dean to emerge from the third story window. All Sam could see was smoke and fire, and the first two floors being ravaged relentlessly by the flames.

"911, what is your emergency?"

"Holcum Apartments. There's a fire. There are people inside."

"Sir, we've already been alerted to situation, the fire-department and paramedics are on their way, please stay on the—"

Sam flipped the phone shut, returning it to his jeans pocket. The girl was still clinging to his sleeve. When he tried to gently pull away, she shook her head, her crying intensifying.

"Nonono…please…"She sputtered.

Sam's heart clenched at the sight of her and her scared request. He didn't want to leave her alone like this, and in any other circumstances he wouldn't, but Dean…

"I have to go back for my brother," Sam said. "Just… just stay here, paramedics are on the way. They'll be here soon, but if I don't go now…" _Goddammit, Dean!_

The girl released his sleeve reluctantly, her own eyes lifting to the third floor. Sam followed her gaze and could see that smoke was now flowing from the open windows.

Sam took her arm reassuringly. "Stay here. It'll be all right."

She nodded and her chin trembled. She crossed her arms over herself in a protective manner, and Sam knew she was giving him permission to leave her. As scared as she was, it was clear she knew the building wouldn't last much longer and her other rescuer was still inside.

Sam held out a hand trying to reassure her, and at the same time was reassuring himself. If he didn't come back, at least someone would be coming…

He pivoted and sprinted back toward the fire-escape. Jumping up, like he did before, but this time he felt his entire back flared up in protest against the gash. He grunted out with the added pain and effort, scrambling to get up onto the first platform. He noted immediately that the metal of the structure was hotter than it had been, and as he hit the second story stairs, he had to pull down his sleeves over his hands in order to grab the railing and pull himself up faster.

He couldn't see where he was going through the scorching smoke, and when he broke above it, his eyes stung and watered to the point he couldn't see. Regardless of his temporary blindness, he bounded forward until the railing turned and he could feel the brick next to the open window.

_Please…be all right…_The single, deafening thought echoed in Sam's mind as he set foot back into the burning third floor room.

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It felt like he was moving in slow motion. The way the smoke had penetrated the third floor, silently and quickly, it hadn't taken long to curl up through the rotting floor boards and imbue the once breathable air with a suffocating thickness. It coated everything like a burning fog, and Dean quickly lost visibility of the person he was chasing by the third hallway he turned down. He'd been following what he could have sworn was the shadow of a man, calling after him to get his attention.

Dean paused, coughing into the crook of his arm and using his sleeve to wipe at the smoke-induced tears filling his eyes. He knew he needed to get below the smoke to breathe, but he was just a few steps behind this… whoever the hell it was nuts enough to run _away_ from help while a building was burning around them. Dean was a couple of seconds away from giving up and finding the nearest fire-escape. _If this guy wanted to burn, that's his prerogative._

A door slammed to his right and he moved toward the sound, pushing away form the wall and making his way toward the noise.

"Hey!" He tried again, pushing the door open with the hand that wasn't pressed savagely against his nostrils. "I don't care what you've done, but if you don't want to end up extra crispy we need to get—"

Dean stopped, blinking back smoke-induced tears to clear his vision. This room hadn't filled with as much smoke, but the wisps that were twisting their fingers through the moonlight made it hard for Dean to make out what he was seeing. There was the silhouette of a man beside the moon-bathed window, but two shadows moved behind him, one catching the light for a moment before folding back against the darkness collecting around them.

Dean's mind wasn't registering what he thought he saw revealed for a few brief seconds. Feathers. Blackened. Broken. Mangled.

"Holy shit…"

There was a loud crack, like thunder wracking the skies, and Dean felt the floor shift, sloping back toward the hallway. The whole building groaned deafeningly, the sound slamming into his ears and reverberating through his chest. The hairs on the back of Dean's neck stood away from his skin, every muscle coiling at the realization of what was happening.

Another groan, an even more raucous snap, and the floor beneath Dean gave way.

Dean started forward, reaching out on pure synaptic survival reflex, his fingers grasping onto the splintered edge of what was left of the third floor apartment floor. He dropped for a few mind paralyzing seconds, before his weight snapped against his fingers. He dug into the jagged wood in an attempt to keep from falling.

He dangled there, feet kicking, fingers tearing, trying to lift himself up while beneath him it seemed that Hell had opened up under his feet. He could feel the consuming heat, hear the roar of the flames, the crackle and sizzle of the wood disintegrating within fiery hands. Flames licked up at his legs, his waist, the hell-mouth wide with ravenous anticipation.

Dean tightened the muscles in his already tiring hands, trying to use the strength of his fingers alone to gain more leverage. The broken wood piece he clung to was starting to break under his weight and he was losing sensation in his hands.

Breathing was agony. Every breath seemed to add its own branding, the heat stealing air from his already oxygen-starved lungs. He suppressed coughing the best he could, but with his next attempt to pull up on his bloody fingers, a coughing fit took hold and he lost his grip with one hand.

Hanging by the remaining fingers, his chest shuddering violently with attempts to breathe, Dean looked down at the furnace churning under him. It moved with a life of its own, moved like a laugh would sound. Ripping air from his lungs and drowning out all thought, all sound, the fire storm below him was all too familiar. Dean was looking straight into the face of his nightmares.

The flames wrapped their hungry fingers about his legs, and he almost let go of the edge as pain flared up along his calf, sinking its teeth deep into his flesh. It caused him to kick harder, tire faster, and as the blood from his fingers slid down his wrist in red rivulets, he started to slip. All Dean could think about was how he'd failed Sam.

_It wasn't supposed to be like this. I was supposed to have more time!_

"Dean!"

His head felt like it was weighted to his chest as he lifted his eyes away from the inferno below and up into Sam's face. His brother was crouched at the edge of the gaping hole in the floor, positioning himself so he could reach over the edge. The edge gave a little under Sam's weight and Dean opened his mouth to yell at him to be careful, but he had no breath, the words withered within his parched throat.

Sam planted his feet and reached down with both hands, wrapping them around Dean's wrist.

"Reach up!" Sam commanded. "Reach up and grab my hand, Dean!"

Dean attempted to move his arm, but it was leaden in the socket, his muscles starving for air. _I'm sorry…I can't…Get out…Get out, Sam!_

He looked back up into the face of his brother, red, soot-covered, his eyes running over with a mixture of tears and smoke. Dean saw a ferocity woven through his brother's gaze that he couldn't ever remember seeing there. A ferocity he'd only ever seen in…

"Dean! Now!" Sam barked.

…their father. Dean heard Sam, but the echo of John was so strong it snapped something inside of him, willing Dean one last adrenaline shot. He tore up his arm, grabbing onto Sam's wrist.

Scooting back slowly, digging in his heels where he could, Sam started to pull Dean up and over the edge of the brink. Dean was helping, but Sam bore as much weight as he could, feeling how weak Dean's grip was about his wrists. With one final growl of effort, Sam pulled Dean up onto what was left of the apartment.

He rolled Dean over, trying to put out the fire on his leg that was burning through his jeans. He managed to extinguish it, but couldn't see what damage had been done.

"Can you stand?" Sam asked, shouting above the roar of the fire to be heard.

Dean nodded and Sam laced his arms under Dean's, lifting him from the floor and supporting him while he found his legs. Dean stumbled, knees buckling at his first attempt, but he regained strength as he leaned against Sam. His leg felt like it was still burning, and he closed his eyes to fight the fresh pain that shot up as he put weight on it.

Sam shifted Dean so that his brother could use him as a support—arms laced around each other's shoulders—and led him back toward the adjacent room, away from the missing section of floor.

Sam had seen a stairwell and knew it was exactly three doors down from where he'd found Dean. They needed to get out, and the way they'd come was already barred by the rising flames. Burning embers dripped from the ceiling all around them as Sam searched for the door. He found it, and propped Dean against the wall so he could get it open. He brought up his foot, hammering it into the door before more of the floor around them started to crumble. Sam grabbed Dean, dragging him into the stairs and pushing him toward the forth floor.

"I need a map," Sam coughed as they limped along.

He listened to Dean's ragged wheezes next to him as he pulled him along, both stumbling on the stairs, both trying to keep the other upright. As they punched their way through the forth floor doors, Sam went straight for a window, bringing up his elbow and bringing it into the glass face, knocking out the panes. Both he and Dean pressed their faces into the fresh air, gulping in lung-fulls and hacking up black phlegm.

The fourth floor wasn't as bad yet, but there was smoke following them from below. Sam looked out the window and couldn't find another fire-escape. Through all the twists and turns they'd ended up on a side of the building that seemed to be lacking in fire code awareness.

"Shit," he said, turning around and looking at the walls for anything that would help him navigate back toward a fire escape. His eyes caught the torn, yellowed piece of paper lifting up from the wall as the wind from the broken window. Moving to it, he could see that it was an old map of the building.

"West, we were facing west?" He asked.

Dean was still recovering at the window, ashen pallor setting in as the red from the heat drained from his face. He moved away from the window sluggishly, approaching Sam like he was sleep walking.

"I don't know…" he answered. His eyes weren't even focusing on Sam. On anything.

"Dean," Sam said, taking his brother's shoulders.

"I saw wings…" Dean said absently.

"What? What are you—" Sam started but stopped himself.

There was a crash below them and Sam looked back down at the map in his hands, eyes glancing over it quickly as he plotted out where they had to go in his mind. He grabbed Dean's shirt, forcing his brother to look at him.

"I need you all here," Sam said.

Dean wrapped a hand around Sam's wrist, nodding. "All here." He continued nodding like he was psyching himself up. "All here." He coughed again, another fit ripping through him, pounding his lungs abusively against his ribcage.

The whole fourth floor was being taken over by smoke and Sam knew they had to move. As soon as Dean recovered, Sam grabbed him again and pulled him toward the next hallway.

The window to the fire-escape was blocked on the forth floor, barred by junk and iron grating set into the window. Sam knew that they had to take the stairs back down to the third floor, take a right, a few lefts and then, if he had looked at the map correctly, they would be back at something resembling a fire-escape.

_But nothing is ever that easy…_

The second they broke out onto the third floor, they were right back into the fire. The flames leapt out from the walls, and the ceiling, blocking the immediate right turn that Sam had been counting on. He took off toward the left, reorienting himself in his mind, praying that he wasn't wrong. Dean was running at a stumbling pace in front of him and Sam was calling off directions from behind.

"Turn right!" Sam bellowed. In the confusion of the heat and smoke, Dean turned left, shoulder smashing into a locked door. "Your other right!"

Dean covered his head as more ash and fire rained down from above, and immediately changed directions.

Seeing the window at the end of the hallway, they started into a sprint, willing their bodies to pump blood and move.

They hit the window at a dead run, smashing through the glass and dropping onto the rickety metal staircase on the other side. The whole structure whined and shuddered as both brother's lay on the grating, bruised, bleeding, burned and desperately pulling in air. They knew they needed to move, to get off the thing before it fell apart.

Another metallic moan echoed through the alley, and Sam looked up to see the bolts trembling against the crumbling brick siding. Dean saw it as well, and he reached up for the railing, hauling his ass up from the floor as fast as his injuries would allow.

"Get off the stairs. Get off the stairs." Sam muttered under his breath as he started down, taking as many as he could while the metal structure rumbled with increasing tremors.

Without warning, it cut loose from the wall, falling sideways into the alley, before it caught on its remaining supports. The jarring force of it catching threw Sam and Dean over the railing of the second floor. Sam's arm caught the railing, while Dean caught hold of Sam.

Dean looked down and saw they didn't have too far to go… the garbage bins might break their fall. The fire-escape pulled away from the wall some more, and Dean let go, dropping down into one of them. Sam followed, landing next to him ungracefully.

"This…is not…how I planned on spending…my evening," Dean gasped, still trying to make amends with his lungs.

The escape dropped some more and Sam knew a few more weak supports was all that stood between them and the whole damn thing coming down on them.

"Move," Sam said. "Move, now!"

They scrambled to get up and out of bin, fighting the garbage and their exhausted limbs in one last attempt at survival. They hoisted themselves up onto the edge of the bin just as the high pitched screech of metal against metal intensified. Sam flopped over the side, followed by Dean whom he had to drag up to his feet and pull the rest of the way. The whole fire-escape collapsed in a mess of mauled metal into the alley, smashing into where they'd been seconds before.

"God…we sure know how…to make an exit…" Dean heaved, his breathing more erratic, even more labored despite the air around him.

Sam was recovering, leaning over with his hands on his bent knees. He smiled up at Dean at his statement, but tugged down the corners of his mouth when he saw Dean sway.

"Dean?"

Dean started to go down, but Sam crossed the space between them in one stride, locking his arms under his brothers. Dean didn't go down completely, but the way he fell into Sam's arms, Sam could tell he wouldn't be able to walk back to the Impala un-aided.

"She get out?"

Dean's breath was hot against Sam's neck as he held his brother.

"Yeah. She'll be fine, Dean. We saved one… You did good."

Sam helped Dean stand, positioning himself like he had before so that Dean could use him as a crutch. The walk back to the Impala seemed like an eternity to Sam. His back pinched and shot tiny sparks of pain across his shoulder blade. Dean's weight grew heavier as his legs weakened, his speech becoming more slurred, his head dropping onto his chest. When they reached the car, Sam practically poured Dean into the passenger seat.

Sirens could be heard in the distance, and anyone who would have found two soot-covered men an attention grabber were preoccupied with the burning building down the street.

Dean listed to the side, laying his head against the seat while his feet hung out the side door. Sam was kneeling, rolling up Dean's pant leg as carefully as he could to see the damage. The burns weren't bad. Miraculously, they weren't much worse than a sun burn, though all of the hair on Dean's lower legs were gone. Somehow the denim—or something—had protected him.

Sam stopped caring about why Dean wasn't worse and breathed a shaky sigh of relief that he wasn't going to have to take care of anything that would require a hospital trip. They didn't have that luxury… not anymore. He moved a hand to his mouth, wincing as it pulled at the cut on his shoulder. He needed to patch up Dean and himself. He needed to get them out of there.

"I was gonna burn…" Dean breathed, barely audible, but Sam caught it. The words tore into him.

"I didn't let you. I _won't_ let you…" Sam replied, helping Dean pull his feet into the Impala.

"No clues…" Dean said, eyes fluttering.

Sam nodded wearily. "We'll come back tomorrow…" _If there's anything left…_

He shut the door and went to the driver's side. He slumped down behind the wheel, his mind heavy with the events of the night. Ryan's face before he struck the match, the girl's tears, the killer's voice mocking him, Dean's eyes as he'd hung above what had been as close to Hell as Sam ever wanted his brother…

They headed for the hotel in silence. Sam soaking in the sound of Dean's rough breathing.

_God I almost lost you…_

"I think Ryan was Sara's… you know…" Dean muttered from where he was leaning against the window, eyes still closed.

Sam hadn't realized that Dean was awake. He nodded, risking a look over at Dean. He could see him shivering beneath the blanket that he'd pulled out for him from the back seat. Sam couldn't even imagine what was going through Dean's mind…but he had a good idea. _Too close…too damn close…_

"That's why we have to stop this guy—especially now that he knows we're after him." Sam licked his lips, tasting salt and ash. "Y'know, man… for a moment there… just a moment… I actually wondered what it would be like to punish someone for the real evils committed in this world…"

Dean blinked half-open eyes at Sam. "When we find this freak, Sam…You can find out."

a/n:

Thanks for sticking with us, guys. And Jane, we're saving some Belgium chocolate cookies for your review.

Two more days to go…

Playlist:

AC/DC's _Have a Drink on Me_

Led Zeppelin's _Your Time Is Gonna Come_

Pink Floyd's _Time_ from _The Dark Side of the Moon_

Fleetwood Mac's _Big Love_

Paul Oakenfold's _Amesterdam_

Billy Squier's _The Stroke_

DJ Tiësto's In Search of Sunrise Edit of _Silence_ (Delirium and Sarah Mac)


	6. Saturday: Envy

**Disclaimer/Spoilers/Authors:** See Chapter 1.

a/n: We made it! We really wanted to get this chapter up for you guys before Sojourner's wedding. **Congrats** to SJ on her big day!!

Heads up—it's a long one. But hopefully worth the wait! Thanks so much for reading and for taking time to review. We are enjoying writing this story—but seeing you guys react to it and comment on it has made this a fantastic experience. We hope you enjoy this chapter—answers will be supplied and questions will be raised leading up to a _very_ bloody Sunday…

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_"There is not a passion so strongly rooted in the human heart as envy." _

_- Richard Brinsley Sheridan_

_All I want is a picture of you  
All I want is to get right next to you  
All I want is your picture in a locket  
Your face in my pocket_

_ -"Fire" by U2_

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Saturday: Envy

Dean coughed, his body bowing forward with the effort, his right arm crooked across his face. It was a wet, hacking sound that shook something loose inside of Sam each time he heard it, twisting the muscles in his already tight jaw to the point of snapping. The sound had become the backdrop for their drive from Tulsa, blending with the soft whir of air through the open windows, the hum of rubber against the blacktop, the growl of the Chevy's powerful engine.

"You okay?" Sam shot his eyes over to his right.

Dean tipped his head back, gasping quickly for air, then pulled his lower lip in silently. The smell of smoke and the stench of singed hair permeated the air inside the car, despite the lowered windows. The fresh air felt good against Sam's skin—his face, neck, and hands felt tight and hot, as if he'd spent the last several hours soaking in the sun's burning rays.

Sam swallowed hard, trying unsuccessfully to coat his own raw throat with wetness and appease his body's desire to force the sooty air from his lungs. His head pounded in relentless time with his heartbeat, causing flickers and sparks of images from the past several hours to tease the edges of his vision.

Sam was exhausted, angry, confused. Stealing another quick glance at Dean's tense, pale face and closed eyes, Sam cursed the distance between Tulsa and Mercy... cursed the fact that they had nothing in the car to assuage the dull burn on his arms and the painful pinch across his back… cursed the fact that Dean's bleeding hand was wrapped in napkins he'd found in the glove box and that he could see his brother's leg shaking from the sharper pain of the burns he'd sustained as the fire had licked greedily at his dangling body.

The sight of Dean hanging over the flames—the look of near-resignation in his brother's eyes—had scared Sam. He couldn't remember feeling a fear like that grip him so fast, so tight… ever. Not when he'd first encountered a spirit on a hunt. Not when he'd left his family behind to try life on his own. Not when he'd returned to the main room of the cabin in Missouri to face the sight of Dean holding the Colt on their father. Not even when the Yellow-Eyed Demon had revealed the truth to him… that his mother had recognized the demon, that he had demon blood in him.

None of those things had scared him as much as the sight of Dean hanging by his fingertips above "Hell," his eyes telling Sam that he knew this was his destiny. _Accepting_ that fact.

Sam curled his hands tighter around the steering wheel, his back tightening with the movement, and he bit his lip against the slightly perverse pleasure that shot through him parallel with the pain. He _wanted _this pain, wanted the reminder that he was just as capable of feeling pain as he was capable of causing it… as he was capable of killing.

_You think I'm a monster…but I'm just the messenger… how about I let you and your brother decide this one…_

Dean took a breath beside him in the dark of the car and Sam heard it rumbled through his brother's chest and rattle at the base of his throat.

"Hang in there, man," Sam said, his voice sounding ancient and weary in the eerie quiet of the car.

Sam cut his eyes over to his brother, watching Dean's neck arch as he pressed his head against the seat, working to expand his chest, working to pull the fresh air into his fire-branded lungs. Dean's nod was nearly imperceptible. He hadn't said a word since they'd pulled away from the still-burning apartment building. Sam felt the silence between them like a weight.

_When Dad said I might have to kill you, it was only if I couldn't save you… if it's the last thing I do, I'm going to save you…_

Sam swallowed again, but wasn't able to temper the urge that clawed its way to the surface. Turning his face into his left arm, he coughed, hard, the sound as wet as Dean's. Pulling his face back, he wiped a trembling hand across his lips, seeing the black from his lungs smeared there in the headlights of the passing cars.

Dean's promise had ultimately been a prediction. Saving Sam may prove to be the last thing Dean ever did... Sam shuddered, feeling a chill build from his heart and snake its way through his chest and traverse his arms to quiver free at his fingertips.

Seeing their exit, Sam took the curve slightly faster than he'd intended and Dean shifted sideways, slumping with a soft exhale of air against the passenger door. _I won't let you burn…_ Sam pulled in a sharp breath, repeating his own promise silently, committing it to memory, writing it in blood on his heart. This hunt… this… _killer _wasn't going to take Dean from him and neither would the Crossroad's Demon eleven months from now. He wouldn't allow it.

Dean cleared his throat in an attempt to quell the cough that was clamoring for attention. Sam glanced at him again and a memory of Dean's dazed voice tumbling toward him from the center of the firestorm shook loose. _I saw wings_… Closing his eyes briefly, Sam shivered, then returned his attention to the road.

He knew. He knew now.

The light from the motel sign at the edge of Mercy beckoned to him like a beacon in a storm and he breathed a slow sigh of relief. Sam stopped the car in front of their room, cut the engine and sat still. He listened to the motor tick as it cooled. He listened to the cicadas chatter in the shelter of the darkness. He listened to the hum of the neon sign above them. He listened to the shake of air in his brother's chest. He listened to his own heartbeat.

Dean didn't move, and for a moment, Sam wondered if he was conscious. Silence was a warning sign of pending danger where his brother was concerned. Silence coupled with stillness may as well mean death. Sam turned his head slowly, convinced that any sudden movement might cause it to roll from his shoulders and lay between them on the Impala's seat, and looked at Dean. He could see the shadow of his brother's lashes as Dean blinked in the darkness.

_Okay, so… conscious, then…_

"We need to get inside," Sam said, wincing as his voice scraped across the abrasions in his throat. Dean's head ticked back in the barest hint of a nod, but he said nothing.

Sam grabbed his door handle, watching surreptitiously as Dean reached across his body to open his door, avoiding moving his right hand too much. They stumbled from the car in unison and Sam moved across the grill of the car, intending to help Dean to the motel door, then paused when he saw the look on his brother's face. Dean's jaw was set, his eyes shadowed, his lips pushed forward as if in thought. He was leaning against the hood of the car with his left hip, his gaze on the door.

Sam felt his breath hitch in his chest, pressing against his heart. Dean would never say it out loud, but each time they were forced to return to this room, Sam imagined he heard a stifled scream, felt the claustrophobia surround his brother. It was like watching darkness eat itself in the shadow of an unlit room, growing, stretching, suffocating.

Dean shifted his eyes briefly and Sam felt a strange sense of vertigo at the brief visual he caught of Dean's eyes. It was as if he were seeing his brother fall inside of himself. Sam almost suggested they just leave, go somewhere else, but Dean squared his shoulders and limped forward, toward the door.

Dean paused at the entrance, looking over at Sam, waiting for him to pull out the keys and let them in. Sam took another breath, wincing as it caught in his throat, and coughed into his sleeve, then opened the door. He waited, watching, as Dean peered inside. Then with a heavy sigh, Dean stepped in and Sam saw his shoulders tremble a little.

Dean approached the nearest bed, reaching out with his left hand, his right cradled against his belly, and eased down on the mattress. Sam closed the door behind him, then leaned back against it wearily. His eyes caught on the large, red digital read-out on the clock radio between the beds. 2:02 a.m. He couldn't decide if it was too late or too early.

"God, we stink," Dean suddenly said.

Sam jerked in surprise at the sound of his brother's voice. It was sandpaper over glass. It was liquid metal. It hurt him to hear it.

"Yeah," Sam nodded. "Let me turn on the light. Check out your leg."

"No, don't," Dean stopped him.

Sam hadn't budged from the door. "What? Why?"

"Just… just don't. Don't want the light," Dean choked out before another cough consumed him. "Son of a bitch," he growled, resting the back of his hand against his lips, and Sam shivered at the anger he heard in his brother's voice.

"At least let me look at your hand," Sam said, rolling his neck, trying to ease the ache in his head.

The sensation of movement lingered at the edge of Sam's senses, as though his body was being propelled forward, beyond his control. The gray images of the motel room seemed to be rushing at him then standing still a moment later. Trying to still the movement, Sam closed his eyes briefly, then forced them open once more, working to orient himself. Dean was across from him, sitting on the bed, arms on his knees, hands hanging loosely between his legs, head bowed.

Sam felt his knees tremble and he gave in to gravity, sliding down the door and letting his legs sprawl out in front of him on the floor, his left foot resting against Dean's left boot. The cut on his back had stopped bleeding, but as he pressed against the door, his stomach muscles tightened in protest as a cold shiver of pain shot from his shoulder to his fingertips.

They sat, silent, for several minutes. Sam heard cars pass on the road in front of the motel. He heard the wet sound of Dean's breathing, knew his own was just as bad. Dean coughed again and Sam winced, watching in the flickering light that shone in through the window as his brother's face pulled together in a grimace.

Sam didn't think he'd ever been so tired. He ached in places deeper than his wounds, deeper than physical pain. He ached in places where before he'd only felt happiness. He felt an ache wrap around his heart tighter and stronger than the one that had entrenched itself inside of him as he'd watched his father burn.

Dean suddenly pushed himself to his feet, swayed slightly, then managed to catch his balance. Sam was glad; he wouldn't have been able to catch Dean at the moment. He didn't think he could even lift his arms at this point, and he had no desire to move from the floor to the bed, regardless of how tired he was. Dean took one stumbling step, then paused, listing slightly to the side.

"What are you—" Sam started.

"Gonna clean up," Dean rasped, stepping carefully over Sam's sprawled legs and heading into the bathroom to Sam's right.

"Damn," Sam muttered, closing his eyes and gingerly rotating his singed arms. "We are trashed."

Dean managed to reach the bathroom doorway and leaned against the frame, his back to Sam. "That should have…" he paused, coughing, his shoulders shaking from the effort. "A whole different meaning," he finished.

"You need my help?"

Dean pushed away from the doorway and stepped to the sink with cautious, weary steps. "Let me get back to you on that."

He left the door open, and Sam rolled his head to watch. If Dean fell, he might not be able to catch him, but he could at least crawl in that direction.

Sam blinked slowly in the dim light, his eyes on Dean's stilted movements. The curtains were parted enough that the light from the neon sign and the parking lot halogen lamps cast a silvery-orange glow around the room. The window above the shower let in the moonlight and tossed shadows around Dean's body. His brother had braced his left arm on the sink, his head hanging low, his right arm pulled close to him.

Dean straightened, and Sam saw him catch his own reflection in the mirror, frown, then look away. Sam wondered for a moment what Dean saw when he looked at himself. Did he see a hero? Did he see a savior? Did he see a solution, a purpose, a mission, an anchor? Or did he see responsibility and obligation? Failure and judgment? A childhood lost and forced existence in spite of desires?

Sam licked his lips slowly, his movements sluggish with exhaustion. He didn't move his eyes from Dean, but he wasn't really seeing him either. He watched as Dean pulled the bloody napkins from the cuts on his fingers, but didn't register the hiss of pain or the curse that escaped Dean's lips as the thin paper came away from the slices across his index, middle, and ring fingers. Sam heard the water turn on, but didn't absorb the cry that Dean bit off as he slid his wounded hand under the hot liquid.

Instead, Sam saw reality. He saw the one person—the one thing—that always made things real to him. Dean had been his touchstone in a way that Jess never had. Things were real once he told them to Dean—they had weight, they mattered. Sam knew what they were fighting now… he knew what they were up against… but he didn't _want _to know. He didn't _want_ to believe it… and if he didn't tell Dean, then it wouldn't be real… if he didn't tell Dean—

"Fuckin' son of a_bitch!" _

This time Dean's curse was loud enough to pull Sam back from the gray twilight between waking and sleeping. Sam blinked, forcing his eyes to focus on his brother.

"You need—"

"Damn demon bastard," Dean continued. He was on a roll. Sam closed his mouth, his teeth clicking together, and started to push himself slowly upright. "What the hell, Sam? Soaking the fuckin' place in gasoline? With that girl up there? I mean, if Ryan was Lust, fine, but she wasn't a part of—"

Dean hissed, biting off his tirade in mid sentence as the hot water hit a particularly sensitive area of his wounded hand.

Sam made his way to the bathroom, flicking on the overhead light and mimicking Dean's squinted eyes as they both pulled away from the sudden brilliance like vampires in the sun. When he could focus again, Sam looked at Dean's hand. There were slivers of wood protruding from Dean's fingers visible from where he was standing. Sam winced in sympathy.

"Here," he said, reaching into the bathroom kit sitting on the countertop. "Lemme help."

He pulled out the large pair of tweezers they'd purchased after their visit to Roosevelt Asylum when he'd had to remove the rock salt from Dean's chest that didn't dissolve into the wounds. Since then, the over-sized tweezers had been used to remove material from the burn on Dean's shoulder courtesy of the Benders, pick a number of stubborn locks, and remove glass from Sam's cheek after Gordon's second explosion blew some shrapnel at him.

"I got it," Dean grumbled, shifting his weight off of his burned leg and grabbing the tweezers from Sam.

Lacking the strength to argue, Sam sank down on top of the closed toilet lid, watching Dean lean against the sink and awkwardly pull the wood from his shaking hand. Dean never had been much good with just his left hand.

"Dean," Sam muttered, tipping his head sideways against the wall.

Dean grunted in response, his chest flinching with the forced movement of heavy breathing.

"It's not a demon," Sam said, lifting tired eyes to Dean's face.

Sweat glistened on Dean's pale upper lip, and the areas not covered in soot shone like alabaster in the unforgiving light of the bathroom.

"Huh?" Dean looked up, puzzled, as if Sam's words had glanced off of his ears leaving bits of letters behind in their wake. Dean's hands parted, his left wrist braced on the edge of the sink. A cough shook through him and he dropped his head, then lifted it once more, to regard his wounded hand as though it were an enemy.

Sam watched Dean's hand shake as he pulled out a second splinter the size of a sunflower seed, and he stood up. Silently, he took the tweezers from Dean, grasping his brother's right hand, wet from hot water and blood, and held it steady. For several minutes there was no sound in the small bathroom save Dean's weighted breathing and the water running from the faucet. Sam pulled the remaining particles of flooring from Dean's hand, then, as Dean leaned heavily against the edge of the sink, reached into the kit and pulled out the antiseptic.

Without warning him, Sam poured the antiseptic across Dean's cuts, gripping his hand when Dean instinctively tried to pull away.

"Holy shit!" Dean cried out; Sam felt his brother's body tighten in defense of the new onslaught of pain. "Jesus _Christ_, Sam."

"Sorry," Sam whispered, holding Dean's hand tight as the antiseptic bubbled and fizzled across Dean's fingers.

"Sadist," Dean grumbled. Sam could feel him trying to keep his hand still, losing the battle as his weakening body betrayed his pain.

"Said I was sorry," Sam pouted, holding tighter as Dean's hand jerked.

When the fizzing stopped, Sam patted the cuts dry with one of the rough motel towels, then applied ointment and started wrapping gauze around the cuts. He could hear Dean's pants of breath as his brother worked to maintain his composure.

"You're not gonna be able to get this ring off for awhile," Sam commented, noting how the cuts caused Dean's fingers to swell around the silver ring he was never without. "Not that taking it off is a big concern to you or anything…"

"Gimme that," Dean groused, pulling the gauze and medical tape away from Sam and backing up to sit on the edge of the bathtub. As he wrapped his fingers, he glanced up at Sam. "What about you?"

"I'm okay," Sam lied.

"You look like you got your bell rung twice and can't find your corner, Sam," Dean pointed out, somehow keeping an eye on Sam and wrapping his wounded fingers at the same time.

"Your leg was on fire," Sam found himself saying suddenly.

They weren't the words ricocheting around in Sam's brain; they weren't the reveal he'd begun moments ago. But now that he heard his own voice verbalize the memory of pulling Dean over the edge of the floor, he found his legs couldn't hold him upright any longer, and he sank to the top of the closed toilet seat once more.

"You were on fire, Dean."

"You put it out," Dean said softly.

"Does it hurt?"

"Hell, yeah, it hurts," Dean replied, wincing as he wrapped the last piece of tape.

Sam felt the tiny bits of hair left from where the fire singed his arms rub against his clothes, felt the tightness of his skin in reaction to the brief caress of heat that blasted across him as he'd dove free of the furnace-like room. That had been from a glancing blow… the fire had _touched_ Dean.

"Let me look—"

"I got it, Sam," Dean interrupted, standing slowly, then dropping his ruined jeans to the floor around his ankles. Bracing himself against the wall with his left hand, he toed off his boots and slowly kicked his jeans free, staring mournfully at the blackened pant leg.

"These were my good pants, too," Sam heard him mutter.

Sam leaned against the sink, watching as Dean sat on the edge of the tub again, clad only in a smoke-saturated T-shirt and his boxers, carefully touching the reddening skin and visible welts left behind from the fire's contact.

The smell of burned hair lingered in the air and settled in Sam's nose, making itself at home. He knew he wouldn't be able to smell much else for quite some time. Dean glanced up at him, an unspoken request in his eyes, and Sam reached into the kit, pulling out the burn cream and handing it to his brother.

Dean spread the cream liberally over his now hairless lower leg until the white cream had absorbed into his tortured skin. Letting out a stuttering breath in an attempt to diminish the need to cough, Dean pushed himself to his feet once again.

"Get some rest, Sam," he said, his voice smoke-rough, weary, commanding. "Sun will be up in a few hours. Got work to do."

_Doesn't matter… not anymore… _

"I'll be out in a minute," Sam said, not looking at Dean.

He sensed Dean nod and rolled his eyes to the right, watching his brother's sock-covered feet as Dean turned toward the door, limping out to the bedroom. Sam turned his aching head slowly, needing to keep his eyes on Dean. He saw him reach blindly into their weapons bag, pull the Bowie knife free, then drop into bed, his knife shoved up under his pillow as precaution, as protection, as habit, as reassurance that he might be enough.

Sam closed his eyes briefly, then reached out and swung the bathroom door shut, cutting the light off from the outer room and dropping Dean into relative darkness while he sat in the harsh light of the bathroom. _I saw wings…_ Sam closed his eyes again, Dean's hollow voice echoing in his ears.

_How? No, screw that… why? Why now? Why __**us**_

Sam stood slowly, easing his shirt from his shoulders and groaning quietly as the material pulled away from the gash across his shoulder blade. When he looked at the shirt, he was glad he'd never turned his back to Dean. If his brother had seen the gore across Sam's shirt, he would have gone ballistic. Sam turned carefully to look at the cut in the mirror. It wasn't bad—not deep enough for stitches, and it had long ago stopped bleeding, but it hurt like a son of a bitch.

Sam faced forward, the smell of his own skin making him nauseous. He pulled the rest of his clothes off, grabbing one of the plastic motel laundry bags, and stuffed them inside. Then he dropped the plastic bag into the small trash can beneath the sink. He didn't need another reminder of this night. His memory would be enough.

Naked, he turned to the shower and rotated the nozzle until the water ran lukewarm. He stepped beneath the spray, stifling a groan and jerking forward as the water hit the gash. He let his breath out in slow bursts, trying to uncoil the ache that settled in his stomach. He washed quickly, hoping the smell of Ivory soap and motel shampoo would cancel out the lingering scent of fire.

He stepped out carefully, using the white motel towel to pat his aching body dry. He turned sideways to look at the cut in the mirror. There would be no easy way to patch it without Dean's help, and he wasn't going to call Dean in now. It wasn't bleeding, so it would probably be fine. There was no reason for Dean to even find out.

Flicking off the light, he stepped from the steamy bathroom into the cooler air of the room, the scent of fire he'd been able to rid from his body hanging with the heaviness of memories in the room. Sam imagined he could see it hovering like a cloud above the bed where Dean lay in a twisted semblance of sleep. As Sam watched, Dean shifted against the sheets, rolling to his back with a rough breath, a cough haunting the edges of the sound.

Sam could see the angry red marks on Dean's leg glowing in the neon from the outside lights as a visceral, visual reminder of how close it had really been this time._This time, every time…_ Sam swallowed a cough and turned to the duffel of clothes, pulling out a T-shirt and boxers. He pulled the boxers on, dropping the towel, then shrugged stiffly into the T-shirt. As he was about to step toward his own bed, his eye caught the St. Patrick's pendant gleaming in the light from the parking lot.

Picking it up, Sam stumbled tiredly to his bed, falling against the cool sheets, avoiding his wounded shoulder. The stiff mattress felt like a pile of feathers to his aching body. _Feathers… wings… white feather in Sara Tyler's bedroom…_

Sam shifted, fingers skimming the surface of the St. Patrick's pendant, the pad of his thumb dipping into the grooves, glancing across the scratches, fingering the image engraved there. He pressed his free hand against his closed eyes, willing the burn away, willing sleep to claim him. Thoughts beat against the barriers of his brain frantically, loudly, demanding to be heard, sorted, recognized. He heard Dean groan from the bed beside him. It was a struggle of sound, a fight against an unseen enemy and Sam knew Dean wasn't winning.

Sighing with barely-suppressed frustration, Sam shifted his fingers from his eyes to his forehead, then skimmed them through his damp hair. He wanted to stop hurting. He wanted to scoop out the place inside of him that refused to grant him peace. He wanted this hunt to be over. He wanted Dean to stop dreaming. He wanted to be wrong.

Time passed in a slow crawl as Sam's thoughts chased him from waking to sleeping. He saw Dean hanging over the edge, felt his brother's weak grasp in his hands, saw Dean's eyes, too large for his face, too wide to hide the fear, too young to taste death so violently, tell him that _this is it, Sammy, you gotta let me go…_

Sam jerked, gasping, sweat chasing a trail down his face, tickling his ear. He swiped at it with the back of his hand, surprised to find the source of the wetness to be his eyes. The St. Patrick's pendant was still clutched in his hand and Sam imagined that the engraved image was now imprinted on his palm.

"You're thinking too loud, Sammy."

Dean's voice was rough, but alert. Sam realized then that Dean had been awake for some time. He turned his head against the pillow and saw Dean sitting on the edge of his bed, his hair sticking up in hap-hazard tufts, his eyes puffy from lack of sleep.

"How you feeling?" Sam asked, pushing himself up on his side with his elbow.

Dean cleared his throat, rotating his neck. "Like my brother just pulled me out of Hell." He reached down and touched the rising welts on his leg.

"You need more burn cream?" Sam watched his brother's fingers.

"Nah," Dean shook his head, not looking up at Sam. "Doesn't even really hurt too bad anymore." The quick tightening of the creases around his eyes betrayed his lie for what it was.

Sam swung his legs over the side of the bed, facing Dean, their knees almost touching.

"Time is it?" Dean asked, not looking up from his leg.

Sam looked at the digital clock. "A little after five."

Dean groaned, dropped his head into his left hand, then slumped over to his side, blinking up at Sam. "Well, we're obviously not going to get any more sleep, thanks to Ryan the rapist and his funhouse of flames."

Sam nodded, his lips ticking up at the corners in an automatic gesture of appreciation for Dean's often inappropriate attempts at humor. _Don't ever change, man…_

"We got two sins left," Dean continued, his mouth half buried in the pillow, his eyes on Sam. "Which means two murders. And our clues burned up."

If Sam told Dean what he knew, it would make it real. They would have to face it. They would have to deal with it. Sam felt his chest tighten and he looked down at the floor, away from Dean's eyes… eyes that saw more than he gave Dean credit for. Eyes that saw too much.

"What is it?" Dean asked.

Sam tried to temper his breathing. "I've been thinking…"

Dean pushed himself upright once more, and Sam felt his gaze, but didn't lift his eyes. "Well, that's never a good thing."

"Y'know… how you said that you saw wings?" Sam pulled his lips in, pressing them tightly against his teeth, then looked up at Dean. He suddenly felt young, felt like a child looking for protection. _Tell me it isn't real, Dean. Tell me I'm wrong._ He watched Dean's eyes, free of judgment, free of assumptions, waiting.

Dean nodded slowly for Sam to continue.

"The guy on the phone—the one that told us where to find Lust…" Sam swallowed. "He called himself _the messenger._"

Dean's lips twitched. His eyes darted off to the side. Sam heard his breath rattle in his chest as he pushed himself to his feet.

"I think I'm gonna need coffee for this conversation," Dean groused.

Sam watched Dean limp carefully over to his duffel of clothes, the neon light from the parking lot giving way to the weak, gray light of morning. Sam reached over and turned on the lamp between the beds, watching as Dean flinched and turned his face away.

"Ryan said that _the messenger_ told him we'd help him burn," Sam continued.

Dean's back was to Sam and his shoulders tightened as he continued to take in Sam's words. Dean reached into his duffel, pulled out a pair of clean jeans, holes in the upper thigh and knee, a black T-shirt and a long-sleeved green shirt. Sam watched as he dug further for a clean pair of boxers, then frowned. Showering with that leg was going to hurt like—

"What are you saying, Sam?" Dean asked, his voice low, the muscles across his back tense. He shifted his glance over his shoulder, but didn't look at Sam.

Sam pulled in a breath. "The Bible calls the angels… God's messengers."

_No…_

The word echoed in Dean's head and for a moment he couldn't tell if he'd thought it, or if he'd said it. He felt it from Sam as strongly as if his brother screamed it aloud. The plea reverberated from both of them, tearing them apart and binding them together at the same time.  
_  
_Dean felt the weight of Sam's broken beliefs shift from his brother's heart to rest on his shoulders. He swallowed another cough, his wounded throat protesting the reflexive motion. He felt his breath thick in his chest, churning like waves through his body, fighting to the surface, then rolling back to rest again in his over-stretched lungs.  
_  
I said that angels were watching over you…_

Dean felt his jaw tighten, the muscles bunching and coiling against the bone as though they were alive. "You're telling me we're dealing with a homicidal angel?"

"Yeah," Sam nodded, looking down at his hands hanging loose between his knees, his voice soft with disillusionment. "I think so."

Dean felt the anger burn sudden and hot in his gut, turning and wrapping up around his heart and explode behind his eyes with red fury.

"Son of a _bitch!"_

Dean threw his clothes onto the table, the force of the action stirring the papers of previous sins that were pinned to the wall and scattering the video tape and paperback of Dante to the edge of the table. His mind scrambled and quickly gathered the loose pieces Sam had put together last night, pulling them together and assembling the picture his brother now saw so clearly: the punishment of sins, the eerie knowledge of people's secret lives, the wings… broken, mangled, but wings none-the-less.

"I knew it wasn't a demon," Dean all but growled.

"Yeah, but… you thought it was human."

Dean shot a hot-eyed glance at Sam, silencing further protest. His shoulders rocked upwards with the force of his breath.

_A friggin' __**angel**__?! Not enough that Hell is waiting… that we're in this alone… the good guys gotta go bad now, too? _

He turned from Sam and pulled the curtains back from the window, regarding the parking lot. The letters from the neon sign were reversed in the reflection on the Impala's hood. The rising sun, which had brought with it hope and warmth just a few days ago, crept with cold, brassy light across the nearly empty lot.

Dean dropped the curtain back so that it swung partially closed across the window and turned back to Sam. "How the _hell_do we stop an angel?"

Sam swallowed, his eyes young, spent, and heartbreakingly sad. Dean's breath caught at the shattered innocence reflecting from Sam's gaze. He felt an urge to reach out, to rest his hand on Sam's shoulder, to assure him that it wasn't as bad as it seemed, that they were going to be okay. Instead, he sat heavily in the chair next to the table, knowing that any words of comfort at the moment would be lies.

Sam rotated his right arm stiffly and Dean noticed the red hue of the skin on both arms. He narrowed his focus, scanning Sam for any other injuries he might not have noticed earlier.

"I just… I wanna know why… why is it doing this?" Sam started, his voice trembling with a mixture of betrayal and confusion. "Angels are… they're forces of good. I _believed_ in that good, Dean."

"I know," Dean replied softly.

"And if… if I'm right, then… then that good is… it's wrong."

Forcing himself to his feet once more, Dean went into the bathroom and retrieved the tube of burn cream. He returned and sat on the bed across from his brother, their knees once again close. Without a word, he grabbed Sam's wrist and turned his singed arm over, carefully applying the burn cream to his brother's raw-looking skin. He felt Sam begin to relax as the sting was eased.

"Even angels fall, Sam," Dean said, tempering his anger at the complete unfairness of this situation in an effort to comfort his brother.

Sam lifted his head as Dean reached for his other arm. "What do you mean?"

Dean shrugged. "You know better that I do, man. The devil was an angel once. Got greedy, wanted more power, wanted to be equal to God… and now…" Dean capped the burn cream and sat back slightly on the bed so that he could meet Sam's eyes. "There is a Hell."

Sam took two quick breaths, watching Dean's face, his own expression unreadable. He suddenly stood and crossed to the window, looking out. Dean watched him closely.

"There has to be _something_ out there, man," Sam said, his voice sad, almost defeated. "Something bigger than us. Something _real_ that can be believed..."

The loss in Sam's voice sucked the air from the room and Dean found himself gripping the bedspread with his left hand for an anchor, a reminder of who he was, what his job was.

Frowning, he addressed Sam's back. "You _do_ believe, Sam." Sam's shoulders tensed. Dean pressed on. "What about Father Gregory, huh? You believed in him. And you told me you still pray everyday."

Sam dropped his head, his voice so soft Dean barely heard him. "Yeah, but... I don't know why…"

"What do you mean?"

Sam looked over at him. "It hasn't done me any good."

Dean pushed himself to his feet, his lower leg throbbing once. He could still smell the smoke, the burned hair, the fire on his skin, in his clothing. He felt his stomach roll in reaction. "Sure it has," he protested.

Sam shook his head. "No," he asserted. "I lost Jess, we lost Dad, you lost me… and now I'm gonna lose you."

Dean looked away, biting his lip. Crossing behind Sam, he retrieved his clothes. He just needed to wash away the feel of flames… then he could focus. Get some coffee in his system… then he'd be ready to fight. Find his small corner of normal in the driver's seat of the Impala… then he could look at Sam in the eyes again.

He paused in the doorway of the bathroom, words tumbling forward before he even realized that he intended to speak.

"Sam, I…" He leaned on the doorjamb, his back to Sam. "When I went back to Lawrence—when the djinn sent me back… and I saw Mom for the first time… I didn't believe she was real." He felt his breath stutter in his chest as he exposed memories to Sam he had thus far kept safely ensconced behind the internal cinderblocks that protected his heart.

He heard Sam shift behind him, heard the stretch of material as Sam leaned against the window, pressing the curtains flat against the glass.

"I made her prove she was Mom," Dean said, his eyes on the window above the shower. "I made her tell me what she'd always say when she tucked me in at night."

"You mean," Sam asked, hesitantly, "that angels were watching over you?"

Dean looked at him out of the corners of his eyes. "Yeah." He turned, resting his back on the doorframe. "As soon as she said it… I was okay, y'know? But… the thing is, Sam… I never really believed, well… that _anything_ good was out there until I knew that you did."

Sam blinked, staring.

"When you told me that you believed in… in God and that you prayed… it made me think. I mean, you've seen as much evil as I have… and you still believe that someone's watching out for us."

Sam dropped his eyes, fingering the silver pendant still clutched in his hand. "I used to," he said softly. "But… I'm not sure anymore. How can there be anything watching out for us, Dean?" He looked up, a muscle in his jaw flexing, his eyes raw gashes in his pale face. "After all the good we've done… all the evil we've destroyed… if there is someone—or _something_—watching out for us… how come it let you get stuck in that deal?"

Dean squared his shoulders, pulling away from the doorframe. "Hey, man, you were the one that said God can't interfere, remember?" He turned his wounded hand up, open, then gestured to his chest with his taped fingers. "_I_ made that deal, Sam. No one made me do it. I did it 'cause I…" He shook his head. "I couldn't handle you being dead. I was dead anyway without you, Sam. _I_ made that deal, okay? Me."

Sam narrowed his eyes, his brows meeting over the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, but why did you _have to? _Why didn't someone step in and stop it all from happening in the first place? Stop Jake? Hell, stop_Dad?! _Why didn't someone step in, give us a hand, even _once?!"_ His jagged yell was deep, throaty.

Dean pulled in a breath, trying to calm his suddenly racing heart. This was big. This was worse than the Yellow-Eyed Demon. Worse than vampires and wendigos. Worse than spirits and poltergeists… If Sam was right—and how could he_ not_ be—they were caught in an ageless war between Heaven and Hell, ill-equipped to win a fight it seemed they were destined to engage in.

Sam continued to look at him, to look for answers, to look for some sort of logic to follow. Dean was drowning in his brother's need. Throwing his clothes into the bathroom ahead of him, Dean turned from Sam's eyes, angled the door shut, but didn't close Sam off from him. He wanted the water, wanted to get rid of the smell of fire, the reminder of Hell. In a matter of minutes he'd washed the smoke from his hair and body, groaning aloud as the shower beat a hot tattoo of pain against his leg, then dressed in everything except his jeans, stepping back out into the room.

Sam hadn't moved. He was watching the bathroom door when Dean exited, shaking water from his short, light-brown hair. Dean sat on the chair next to the table, leaned over and began applying burn cream to his leg.

"I don't have any answers for you, Sam," he said, picking up where he left off. "But if there is anything out there to believe in, you're the one that showed me. You gotta remember that."_ I need you to remember that…_

He started to wrap his leg with gauze to keep the raw skin from rubbing against his jeans. Sam let out a helpless groan and sank slowly to the floor, his legs up, elbows resting on his knees, his hands shoved into his hair.

"This is all my fault," he whispered.

Dean jerked his eyes over to his brother's huddled form. "How do you figure _that?"_

He stood, pulling on his jeans, and with an automatic motion, reached into his duffel for his .45, shoving it into his waistband. He didn't imagine he needed it at the coffee shop, but in a world cold enough that angels were becoming demons, he couldn't be too careful.

"I had a shot, Dean," Sam said, his voice muffled by his hands. "I had a chance to kill Jake. Before you found me."

"So?" Dean cleared his throat, the urge to cough lessening, but still present.

"I hesitated," Sam brought his head up, furrows in his hair from the paths created by his fingers. "I let him go. I could have ended all of this then… the Hell's Gate wouldn't have been opened… the demons wouldn't have been released… the balance of good and evil in the world wouldn't have tilted…" Sam closed his eyes and tipped his head back, his voice sounding strangled in Dean's ears. "And maybe… maybe this angel wouldn't have fallen."

Dean took a breath. He couldn't handle this. Not now. "Maybe, Sam," he said, nodding, frustration clear in his voice.

Sam had to believe that the world could be saved, that_they_ could be saved. He had to believe because Dean didn't know how. He depended on Sam's faith… and he was _pissed_that this hunt was stripping that faith from his brother before his eyes.

_Some freakin' fallen angel decides to punish sinners and we get tangled up in it? No way am I letting Sam lose his faith over that. _

Dean could see it plainly—Sam needed to believe to even be able to move forward. To be able to breathe. To fight.

"Maybe this _is_ all your fault," Dean continued. Sam looked up at him, surprised. "Hell, maybe it's mine. Maybe I called God out one too many times…"

Sam shifted his eyes away.

Dean continued, his voice rising, matching his level of helpless rage. "Maybe everything is random and the only reason we're finding connections is because we're _looking_for connections. Maybe nothing we do matters." He swept his wounded hand across his body. "Maybe it's all just bullshit, huh? Maybe we've been fighting evil our whole lives for _nothing. _Or maybe… Maybe this angel is just _pissed off_ that it's not God's favorite anymore!"

Dean pulled in a quick breath, his chest aching suddenly from his tirade. Sam's head tilted slightly and he brought his eyes around to face Dean. The dawning of realization illuminated Sam's face.

Dean pulled his head back. "What?" He asked suspiciously.

"You might be on to something, Dean."

"I am?" Dean quirked his eyebrows together, confused.

He backed up as Sam pushed himself to his feet, stepping away from the window and over to his bed, thought giving him motion.

"The Bible also says that God holds humans as more important than the angels… maybe… hell, Dean maybe you're not too far off track…"

"You go to Seminary school when I wasn't looking?" Dean followed Sam's pace with his eyes, frowning when Sam rolled his shoulder, wincing slightly. "How come you know so much about the Bible?"

Sam shrugged, reaching up distractedly to rub at something on his back, then dropped his arm. "It's book, Dean. Tells a history. If we know about one side, we gotta know about the other, right?"

Dean, folded his lips down, shrugging his acceptance of this fact. Sighing, he reached up and rubbed his still-damp hair, pulling it up and into shape. Sam's eyes were still darting in thought, and Dean felt the morning sun sneak through the parted curtains, warming his back. He needed coffee. _Now._

"Well," he sighed, clearing his throat again. "The _why_ may bother you, Sammy, but I don't really give a shit."

Sam stopped pacing, bringing his eyes up, steady and surprised, on Dean.

"Call it what you want—demon, fallen angel, whatever… it's killing people. And it has to be stopped," Dean grabbed his wallet and shoved it into his back pocket. "Which brings me back to… how the hell do you stop an angel?"

Sam blinked at him, silent. Dean shook his head and stepped toward the door.

"Wait," Sam called after him. "Where are you going?"

Dean glanced back over his shoulder, an eyebrow raised with a _try to keep up_ expression plain on his features. "Coffee."

A protest hung at the back of Sam's throat, as he watched his brother open the door to escape and medicate, but he swallowed it down like a pill, dropping his head with the resounding closing of the door.

The silence that followed was thick, and it took Sam a while to shake himself lose from the whatever invisible force had wrapped itself around him entirely, seeming to meld his feet to the floor. For a moment, as Sam raised his eyes to the closed door, he was jealous of Dean's ability to at least act like he could look past what they were dealing with…

For Sam, this revelation was punching holes right through his core. Huge, self-consuming, dark holes and his only way to _medicate_ was to have one person tell him he was wrong, that this would be all right. He wasn't finished discussing this, and Dean leaving forced him to roll it up inside. He stood in the middle of the motel room for a few minutes, eyes to the door, not knowing if he would be able to will himself to move.

This hurt. It was betrayal on a level Sam had never experienced before or had ever cared to.

_What am I supposed to do with this? Huh?_

The phone rang beside the bed, tearing Sam away from his thoughts with the first unsuspected shrill chirp. He looked over, brows knit, before approaching the phone cautiously as though he expected it to start to moving. No one knew they were here. No one would have any reason to call this room.

Sam picked up the receiver, giving a breathy 'hello', muscles wrapping tight with anticipation of hearing that voice from the club again.

"This is you wake-up call." The female voice of the hotel receptionist percolated his ears.

"I didn't—"

The phone clicked and Sam paused a moment listening to the fuzz of nothing tickle his ear before the line started bleating. He set it back down on the cradle like it was made of glass, and backed away with calculated steps.

_Are you playing with us? Think this is friggin' hilarious don't you?_

Sam took another shower, even though he'd cleaned up the night before, this time not only to rid himself of the smell of smoke and burned flesh which seemed to be permanently laminated to the insides of his nostrils, but to try to feel somewhat less like a stranger in his own flesh.

Emerging from the bathroom in his jeans, he grabbed up the TV remote and killed the burning silence with a flick of his wrist. The room filled with soft, effervescent glow and tinny sound. The morning news played out before him and he caught immediately that the story was about the apartment fire in Tulsa.

Sam turned up the volume, and sat on the edge of his bed, ignoring the way his soaked hair dripped along his shoulders.

_"Mercy native, Ryan Webber, is believed to be the only person who perished in Friday night's fire, although another survivor, Grace McCallahan, claims that the two people who pulled her from the building had gone back inside. Investigations into the possibility that others perished in the fire are on going, while police refuse to release information at this time as to the cause of the fire. McCallahan has refused to speak with any media and is being questioned as to why she, Webber, and the two unknown persons were at the abandoned complex."_

"Grace, please tell me you're gonna come forward about him…" Sam muttered into the remote pressed against his bottom lip.

_"Webber was a well-respected realtor in the small community of Mercy and his loss would be felt by many."_

Sam shook his head. They didn't know. Grace hadn't said anything about who Webber really was.

_"Mercy,"_the anchorman continued, _"has been victim to several murders over the last week, causing police to wonder if there might be a connection."_

Sam huffed out a laugh and blinked in disbelief. "_Might be?! _Ya think…"

Sam pushed to his feet, dropping the remote on the bed. He left the TV on to keep noise in the background, ignoring the testimonies of Webber's neighbors about how he'd be missed. He pushed back his sopping bangs with a towel, dried off and threw on a shirt after smelling the pits. It was decent. As Dean always joked, one could get away without doing laundry by just hanging the shirts outside the window for a while. "Good as new," he'd grin. While it was completely Dean, it was not exactly Sam's methodology for clean clothes. They'd need to do laundry…

The world was going to Hell and Sam needed to do laundry.

He scoffed a little at that thought and went for The Portable Dante on the table. He opened to the last two page markers: Wrath and Envy. They had two more chances to stop this…or just two more chances to watch this twisted killer's form of justice. There was no telling what the order would be, but Sam knew that if they could find another clue and look into who knew who, they could have a shot. If Dean was right, and Ryan Webber was Sara Tyler's rapist, then either Envy or Wrath would have to be connected to one of the previous victims somehow.

But the connection wasn't solid. There was no real pattern. If this homicidal angel, as Dean put it, wanted to, it could go after someone's banker, best friend, gardener, hell, their hairstylist or the guy that they got coffee from every morning. It didn't stay in families or the obvious connections, and if_ six degrees of separation _had any veracity, then they were royally screwed.

Still, it was better than nothing, and Sam cracked open his laptop. He scooted up onto the bed, resting his back against the headboard, the computer against his raised knees. He'd start by looking into Ryan Webber's information online, try to find any other connections to the victims, anything that would point Sam toward the next potential one.

Dean returned shortly after Sam had started his search, breakfast and coffee in hand, his countenance changed dramatically from when he'd left earlier. Somewhere between the motel room door and who knew where he'd gone to retrieve his precious coffee, Dean had been able to shake—at least outwardly—the feeling Sam still had gnawing away in his gut. The feeling Sam knew Dean _had to_ have; he just knew the secret to ignoring.

_The why__ may bother you, Sammy, but I don't really give a shit._

_You give a shit, Dean._ Sam thought, as he studied his brother's guarded face over the computer screen. _Or else you wouldn't have taken off so fast…_

"So," Dean started.

"So…" Sam replied, glancing back down at the computer screen.

"If I didn't know that everyone in town had some dirty little secret, I might actually like it here," Dean stated as he handed Sam a coffee.

Sam set it to the side and raised a brow. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," Dean shrugged. "The girl at the coffee place knew me by name and had my coffee all ready for me when I pulled up. Which is, you know, pretty figgin' sweet."

"What about the diner?" Sam teased.

"Okay, so I'd have to avoid that at night," Dean conceded. "But other than that one cop, Dano or whatever, and the jealous husband, I've liked everyone else I've met. Even Bob's a stand up guy."

Sam let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. "I'd give you a week before you went absolutely nuts, Dean. You could never settle down in a place like this. You'd be stir-crazy in no time. Besides you've always struck me as someone who needs more bright lights, big city."

He watched Dean's face somber a little, his lips forming a sad grin. "Yeah, well, not so sure 'bout that anymore."

"You're kidding me," Sam spoke up, but stopped when he realized Dean wasn't kidding.

His brother pulled up and chair and flipped it around, swinging his leg over the seat and resting his arms on the back. "I don't know, Sam… sometimes, the idea of a town where people know me, know me for who I am and not what I do…" Dean huffed a little, shaking his head.

"No, what?" Sam leaned forward, hoping he'd continue.

"Just… I don't know… be nice."

Sam nodded, agreeing fully, but still slightly surprised by what his brother was saying to him. Not like he didn't think Dean was capable of living the more "white-picket fence" existence, he'd just rarely seen that side of his brother. The only time he'd come close was when he'd managed to learn about what had happened to Dean when he'd been trapped by the djinn. His brother had lived that existence for what had seemed like days. Now, after the deal, Sam was hit with the realization that his brother said stuff like this because these would be unrealized dreams. Unrealized even if there wasn't only one year left for Dean.

The silence had grown thick again, and Sam turned up the corner of his mouth reticently. "Christo," he ribbed.

"Shuddup," Dean replied with a short laugh, standing and heading for his own bed. "Not like I'm ever gonna find out anyway—deal or no deal, I'm a hunter."

Sam just sipped his coffee.

Dean took a seat at the headboard of his bed, with food in hand, pulling his feet up onto the comforter. He was eating, which was a good sign. Sam just wished it didn't look like his brother was trying to force it. Sam would give anything to see Dean attack one of those breakfast sandwiches with his typical ravenous gusto. It would mean that that there was some normalcy returning. But Sam knew better than to hope for that…to hope for _anything_ right now.

"So, I have something on our pyro from last night. Ryan."

"Yeah?" Dean asked.

"Yeah, he was involved in lots of high-end land deals, lots of repossessions sold at a higher price…" Sam paused as he looked over one of the lists he'd been searching through. "And it looks like he's on a contributor list for Daniel Gibson's campaign."

"Doesn't surprise me," Dean muttered. He reached over and grabbed up the TV controller and started to go through the stations. Every channel with local news was covering the apartment fire. "Slow news day…" he grumbled.

One of the stations was covering live at the sight. The news reporter was standing near the burned-out building as she retold the story and spoke with witnesses. Dean recognized the alley behind her, and the sign propped against the trash bin. Part of it was visible, burned black in spots around the letters. He tilted his head. It almost looked like…

The reporter moved in front of the sign, obscuring Dean's view.

"Move lady," Dean barked at the screen.

Sam brought up his head, and looked t the TV.

"Am I nuts or do you see that?" Dean asked.

"Depends on what you see, Dean…" Sam replied, trying to pull something from the picture.

"You remember that hokey slogan for Holcum Apartments? _Home Is Inside These Doors?"_

"Didn't really notice. I was trying to get inside the building," Sam shot an incredulous look Dean's way. _How in the world did you catch that?_

"Yeah, well, you're just gonna have to trust me," Dean said, pointing to the screen.

As the newscaster shifted her stance, Sam saw that the fire has destroyed parts of the sign, leaving particular letters intact. Before Sam could finish trying to make out which letters were still there, the news story changed and Dean cursed.

"We need to go back."

Dean nodded. "Give me ten minutes."

Sam started to gather their evidence, sliding it into a plastic motel laundry bag, and collected their things. He had them packed, their belongings in the Impala along with the evidence inside of how long it took Dean to get ready. They were soon after on their way back to Tulsa, Sam with everything left unsaid churning in his stomach, and Dean with his eyes on the only safe place at the moment: the road.

www

The smell of smoke and wet cinders wafted through the opened windows as they pulled onto the block graced by the burned-out hulk that had once been the Holcum Apartments. Dean pulled his focus to his immediate surroundings, realizing belatedly that the car had been void of their voices during the drive from Mercy to Tulsa. He glanced over quickly at Sam. His brother's face was pulled into a concentrated frown, staring at something in The Portable Dante.

_"And as we wind on down the road, our shadows taller than our soul, there walks a lady we all know, who shines white light and wants to show how everything still turns to gold…"_

Dean felt a shiver inside his chest as he registered the lyrics spinning from the speakers to fill the space in the car left by their silence._What the hell… _He shook his head. _Not you guys, too..._ He reached for the volume, twisting the sound off.

"What, no _Stairway_?" Sam asked, not looking up.

"Hey, if the lady wants to fork over a toll to climb some stairs, let her. We've paid enough to take an elevator ride."

"Hm, profound," Sam said. Dean glanced at him. Sam kept his eyes on the book. "You been practicing that line or what?"

Dean smirked. "Smart ass."

"Learned from the best," Sam looked up, matching his brother's wry grin. He glanced around at their surroundings, evidently as caught up in his own thoughts as Dean had been. "Here already, huh?"

Dean nodded, then pulled to a stop across the street from the blackened building. Turning off the car, Dean hesitated, hand on the door. He could see the edge of the metal fire escape twisted and tilted at a sickening angle over the top of the dumpsters. Smoke had stained the pale brick outer walls like swathes of mascara above the windows.

"Dean?"

"Huh?"

"You okay?"

Dean looked away from the building toward Sam. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You're…" Sam tipped his head forward, waving his fingertips in Dean's direction. "You're shivering, man."

Dean could suddenly feel the tightness return to his chest, the pull that reminded him what it had felt like not to be able to breathe, what it felt like to have the heat sear his lungs. He looked back at the apartment building.

"I'm okay," he lied. "Just… really, _really_ hate fire."

They sat for a moment in the stillness of the car, looking at the building, listening to each other breathe.

"Let's do this thing," Dean said, yanking on the door handle and stepping out of the car, closing the door behind him.

He waited until he heard Sam's door shut, and then, left hand shoved into jeans pocket, right hand held casually at his side, began a curious, slow stroll across the street and up to the apartment building. Letting his shoulders roll loose, his eyes wander lazily around the neighborhood, Dean could have been just another Tulsa resident out for a look-see at the ruined apartment building. He sensed Sam behind him and to his right, covering his weakened side instinctively. A lifetime of living like soldiers ingrained instincts into them that were as natural as breathing, and just as necessary.

"You bring that book?" Dean asked, pausing on the sidewalk in front of the building. He glanced askance at Sam.

Sam reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out The Portable Dante, handing it over to Dean with the question, "What do you need it for?"

"Got a pen?"

Frowning, Sam patted his pockets, eyebrows bouncing up when he felt the slim line of a pen in his left pocket. He fished it out and handed it to Dean, watching with confused curiosity as Dean folded the back of the book over, revealing the blank last page, and started writing letters, his eyes darting over to the ruined sign propped against the dumpsters in intermittent glances.

Sam followed his brother's eye line, head tilted in interest. "Huh."

This is what Dean had seen on the news back in Mercy. The letters of the building sign had been blackened and burned away, all except for a few. Sam watched as Dean wrote them down, then angled the book so that Sam could see.

H—a—u—m—a—i—t—n—s.

Dean began muttering in a low, soft whisper of thought. Sam took the pen from him, grabbing the book and started writing combinations of letters. Dean closed his eyes, moving the letters around in his mind, picturing them, arranging them. Sam pulls his lower lip into his mouth, catching it between his teeth as he continued to write. Dean's voice startled him.

"What the hell is _humanitas_ Latin for?"

Sam blinked, looking down at his last, partially finished word. "Son of a bitch."

"Son of a bitch?" Dean pulled his brows together. "Figured that would take more words, but…"

"_Humanitas_ is Latin for kindness, Dean," Sam said, turning to face his brother and tapping the paperback against his opened palm. He shook his head and cursed under his breath once more.

Pressing his lips out in thought, Dean tilted his head toward the book. "So… Envy then?"

"Yeah," Sam nodded, his eyes turning up at the corners. "That was pretty quick."

"Hey," Dean pulled his head back in mock affront. "I read. Besides," he shrugged, putting his back to the destroyed building. He started to head to the car. "I had a fifty-fifty shot."

He lightly smacked Sam on his shoulder and paused when Sam let out a short hiss of pain.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," Sam said, turning around and walking past him to the car. Dean frowned after his brother's retreating form, following at a close distance.

Dropping into the driver's seat, Dean reached for the paperback, snagging it from Sam with his undamaged hand. He watched Sam's reaction closely. Watching for something he might've missed before. Sam simply shot him an annoyed grimace.

"What's with you and this book all of a sudden?"

Dean shrugged, flipping backwards from the anagram through the book. "I want to see how Envy dies."

Sam sighed, waiting.

"Gah," Dean pulled his head back with a sound of disgust. "They have to have their eyes sewn shut with wire because they… dude, seriously, get this… they gained _sinful pleasure_ from seeing others brought lowly." Dean shook his head, swallowing audibly. "Doesn't this Dante dude kill anyone in a normal way?"

"It's not about killing, man," Sam said, twisting sideways in his seat and dropping his eyes to the book. "It's about punishing. These people are being punished for their sin."

"Whatever," Dean closed the book and tossed it on the seat between them. "This… psycho angel… is taking people out. He isn't just punishing them."

Sam rubbed the heel of his hand against his right eye. "So… we know the sin. We know the punishment. But we're right back where we were every other damn time…"

"Who does this freak think is guilty of Envy," Dean said, resting his elbow on the open window of the Impala.

"Exactly."

"You got those notes on the Mercy family tree from Hell with you?"

Sam reached into the bag of evidence he'd brought. "Yeah, right here."

As he pulled out the paper, a blip from a police siren caused them both to jump. Dean reached quickly for the keys in the ignition as they watched a Tulsa police cruiser approach the burned out building. They pulled in a collective breath, watching as the car passed them, the cop's heads turned away, examining the building. As the police car rounded the block, Dean fired up the Impala.

"Don't know about you," Dean said, pulling quickly away from the curb. "But I'm ready to take this party on the road."

"Best idea I've heard all day," Sam said, sinking back against his seat.

www

"What are we doing again?" Dean asked.

They were parked behind a series of Tulsa apartment complexes, Sam with his laptop open and propped on his knees, fingers flying against the keys.

"Trying to pick up a wireless signal…"

"We could have found a coffee shop…" Dean muttered.

"No. No more coffee. You're gonna bleed the stuff, Dean. Besides this will take me two seconds, and most places around here charge."

Dean leaned over and looked at the long list of signals. He smirked at some of the names displayed.

"Bigdaddy? Hotlipz? Sugamuffinangel? What the hell?"

"You can name your network," Sam explained. "All I need is one lazy person who didn't lock down their…ah ha!" Sam pointed to the network named 'default.' He clicked on it and brought up the internet. "You're not the only master of subterfuge."

Dean raised a brow. "You're stealing wireless, Sam. Not cracking codes for Fort Knox."

Sam ignored him and clicked on his bookmarked pages that held a background search on each of the victims. He could already feel his brother's boredom settling in by the way Dean picked up a beat on the steering wheel with his knuckles, the way he shifted, sighed, laid his head against the wheel.

Dean's hand eventually shot out for the knob of the radio and turned it on. Not every song out there could be about heaven or hell, angels or demons.

"Hand me that notebook," Dean said, nodding toward the one in Sam's messenger bag at his feet.

"Why?" Sam asked, fishing it out.

"Because I figured if I'm gonna be bored out of my mind, with no coffee, I might as well be bored out of my mind…"

"And useful?" Sam asked with a quirk of a smile.

Dean ripped the notebook from Sam's hand, glaring. "For that, I might as well play hangman."

"With yourself?" Sam asked, stifling a laugh.

Dean dropped his head, muttering something about Sam being a wireless pirate whore, while Sam smiled.

_"In the howling wind comes a stinging rain. See it driving nails into souls on the tree of pain. From the firefly, a red orange glow. See the face of fear running scared in the valley below…"_

Listening as Bono crooned, Dean flipped open the notebook and started to draw out the connections between the victims. Daniel with Father Simmons, Daniel with Sara, Daniel with Ryan, Sara with Father Simons, Father Simons with Paul.

He started to draw the line between Ryan and Sara, then paused. His gut told him Ryan was Sara's rapist… but they had no proof.

_"In the locust wind comes a rattle and hum. Jacob wrestled the angel and the angel was overcome…"_

"It's gotta be Ryan or Paul," Dean said with authority.

Sam looked over at Dean, waiting for the big revelation as to how Dean could possibly know that.

"They are the only two," Dean continued, "that aren't connected more than once. More than twice if we connect Ryan with Sara."

Sam looked skeptical. "How does that make sense?"

"I'm not so sure if any of this is supposed to make sense."

"You really think—"

"You got any better ideas?" Dean challenged, eyebrows raised.

Sam wished he did. He recoiled a little at Dean's question and the memories attached. John's voice echoed through Dean's words. Sam started at Dean a moment, his minds eye seeing his father, wishing he didn't feel like such a friggin' little kid…

"No?" Dean asked. "'Cause we're burning daylight and someone is getting their eyes sewn shut today."

"I know that," Sam barked. "Just…gimme a second to look something up…"

Dean leaned back against the door, waiting. Staring out of the side window, Dean watched the clouds gather ominously. He listened to Sam's furious typing and the staccato beats of Zeppelin's _In My Time of Dying. _The sounds blended with the beat of rain as it started to fall. Dean watched the veins of water web out across the windshield and tried to focus on anything but what they were up against

_"Oh, Saint Peter, at the Gates of Heaven...won't you let me in. I never did no harm. I never did no wrong…"_

"Well, Paul's a dead end," Sam finally announced while chewing on his thumbnail.

Dean huffed a little. "That right there's the reason he was Sloth—dude did literally_ nothing _in his life but hit his uncle up for money."

A few more minutes of rain, typing, and back beat ensued Sam's frown at being able to find nothing on Paul. Dean mulled over his question from earlier as he waited for something to surface. How would they kill this thing? He wished that it wasn't what they thought it was. He wished to God, or whatever, that he didn't have to face this right now…

Dean caught Sam frowning out of the corner of his eye. The typing stopped, and Sam was staring pensively at something Dean could see.

"What?"

"Check this out…" Sam started. "Ryan was working on a deal with a man named Carlos Montoya about a horse farm."

Dean leaned over and looked at the site Sam has found. It appeared that the property had a government lean on it and the current owner, a Michael Reese, was unable to make payments.

"Where do you find this stuff?" Dean asked.

"Just gotta know where to look," Sam shrugged.

"So, what… you're thinking… this Carlos guy wanted Reese's land?"

"Kinda looks that way," Sam frowned.

"Land envy," Dean quirked his eyebrows together. "Sounds like a plot to a John Ford movie."

"Do you remember any horse farms between here and Mercy?" Sam asked.

Dean returned the question with an _are you kidding me_stare"This is Oklahoma, Sam. There are more horse farms than people."

Sam's frown deepened and he scrolled down the page. "The lean only gives the legal description of the land -- forty feet from post A to tree, ninety feet from tree to house, et cetera. But it does say that there is a round, white barn on the property."

"Well, alright then. How many round barns could there be between here and Mercy?"

www

Sam had navigated them back toward Mercy, using the county road number to point them in the right direction. As Dean pulled onto the dirt road matching that number, he stared down the path of what seemed to stretch into nowhere and go on indefinitely. The only signs of civilization were the small, weather-beaten houses scattered down either side of the road, giving it little relief from its lonely appearance. It was starting to get dark and Dean noted the time on his watch. It was approaching seven p.m.; they'd have to find this place fast or search the property in the dark.

_At least it stopped raining,_ Dean thought, bumping through a water-filled pot hole on the dirt road.

They remained silent, eyes scanning the fields for the barn described in the lean, avoiding any conversation about how they were running out of time, how they could already be too late, how they might run into the killer who just also happened to be something neither one of them had ever thought they'd have to go against. Staying hidden behind the convenient guise of deep concentration.

Sam found the barn first, calling out when it came into view against the darkening horizon. All was still except the dark phantom that was moving along the white PVC fencing near the road. Sam's eyes locked on the black horse that was running at a full sprint along the fence line, matching the pace of the Impala. He watched until it stopped, and his vision was drawn into the stark white building before them.

Dean pulled in and parked under a large shade tree, just outside of the barn, then sighed.

"I hate barns," he whispered quietly. Sam said nothing.

They moved from the Impala in unison, taking in the way all life had seemed to cease around this place. Nothing moved. The only sound came from their boots sliding over the gravel beneath their feet.

"'S quiet," Dean observed.

Even the air felt too fragile to breathe. Dean moved to the trunk, and Sam flanked the opposite side.

"Even if we're right about this connection, what if we're at the wrong place?" Dean asked as the trunk opened with a groan that made his hair stand on end. It was sounded like it was amplified ten-fold in a place as silent as this. "I mean, this is Reese's place, right?" Dean found himself whispering. "What if Montoya's at his house?"

"This is all I've got, man," Sam said, leaning into the trunk to gather up weapons. He stopped in mid-bend, not exactly sure what he was reaching for.

They stared for a moment at the cache of weapons. Everything and anything they'd need to fight nothing they were up against.

"How do you stop an angel?" Dean repeated softly, eyes darting over their collection of weapons.

Sam took a breath, his mind filtering through lore like a rolodex. He eventually picked up a shotgun and salt rounds, showing them to Dean. His face said it all. _Hell if I know…_

"You think?' Dean asked, picking out his own and stuffing rounds into his jacket.

Sam lifted a shoulder. "If it's fallen…it's just as good as a demon, right?"

That logic worked for Dean. It was the best he'd been able to come up with on his own as well. He grabbed his flask of holy water, his .45, and the other shotgun. He paused a moment, then grabbed the Bowie knife just before Sam shut the trunk.

They approached the house, monitoring every sound, step, and breath. Dean wished that something would make a noise—a cicada, a bird, that horse out in the field. He was so focused on the sounds that they were making that when Sam stopped cold, it was like someone had covered his ears. Dean stopped himself and looked back at his brother. Sam was just standing there, looking like someone had stolen the air from his lungs. Dean held his arms out in question and Sam slowly shook his head. He nodded toward the round barn. The automatic barn lot lights kicked on, illuminating the area where they were standing.

"What is it?" Dean asked, waiting for Sam to do something, say something.

"I can…I can feel it." Sam said. He pointed the shotgun at the barn. "He's in there."

Sam's expression was slightly dazed, almost scared. Dean didn't know how to read it, but he knew he didn't like it. Weirdo visions and returning from the dead were one thing—_f__eeling_ the presence of an angel...

The chill that made itself home in Dean's gut traveled up to encircle his heart at Sam's words. Glancing at Sam's white, pinched features, Dean squared his shoulders, shifted the shotgun to his bandaged right hand, and stepped in front of his brother, leading the way to the wide door situated just under the large light illuminating the barn lot.

Gripping the pull with his left hand, Dean lifted the curved metal latch from the catch, planted his feet, and hauled back on the door, sliding it along the grooved metal track until there was space enough in the opening for him and Sam to stand side by side. The light from the barn lot tossed their shadows deep into the dirt area flanked by several empty stalls. Their senses were immediately assaulted by the heady mix of dirt, hay, and manure wafting toward them through the opening. Particles of hay and alfalfa floated on the beams of light filtering around their bodies.

Almost like a scream in the eerie quiet of the night, Dean could suddenly hear a strange, soft mewling. He couldn't pinpoint the direction it was coming from or what was making the noise. He frowned, unable to discern specific shapes inside the barn.

Hearing Sam pull a breath in beside him, Dean closed his eyes briefly, allowing them to adjust to the shift in light, then opened them once more, readying himself for the fight he felt was imminent. There was a moment before every battle—a slip of time that he was no more conscious of than he was of his own heartbeat—when Dean became like a wild thing. Adrenalin fueled his breath. The hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention. His pupils widened. His muscles coiled and bunched, sliding under skin and over bone as though alive. It happened without his knowing it, and it had saved his life on more than one occasion.

The sound of Sam's guarded breath, standing in the doorway of the barn, was the only warning Dean needed. He brought his shotgun up and across his body, resting the barrel in his left hand, his eyes boring into the darkness to find their enemy. On the far side of the rounded building, he could see a small light giving off a soft, yellowish glow.

Midst the smells of dirt and hay, Dean thought he detected something familiar and distinctly out of place.

_Cinnamon? Where did I…_ The memory hit him like a sledgehammer. Sara Tyler's bedroom. It had also held a strong scent of cinnamon, but he'd simply written it off as a personal quirk of Sara's.

_It's from him…it…_Dean frowned. _So, what… cinnamon, not sulfur? This angel is Betty friggin' Crocker?_

Gut tight, hands ready, Dean stepped further into the barn, registering that Sam was at his side, matching him step for step. As they approached the faint light, Dean saw the figures of two men across from them. They had been hidden by the shadows cast around the round barn from what he could see now was a Coleman lantern. One figure sat on a bale of hay, his hands up by his face. The other stood off to the side, facing away from the brothers.

In a sudden, horrified second, Dean realized the plaintive sound he'd registered upon entering was coming from the man on the hay bale. He felt his skin crawl in reaction. The noise didn't even sound human. Sam shifted silently next to him, his arm brushing against Dean's in either an effort to move forward or an inadvertent motion for reassurance that he wasn't alone in this surreal landscape before them.

Dean shot his eyes over to the other figure standing just to the right of the whimpering man, his back to them, hands clasped behind him. Dean stepped closer, his head tilted, eyes drawn to those hands. As he watched, the man wiggled his fingers in almost a wave before he spoke.

"You're better than I thought."

Sam jerked in surprise, feeling Dean react to his movement, they were standing so close. _You think I'm a monster… but I'm just the messenger…_ It was the voice. The one on the cell phone. Their killer angel stood before them.

"Yeah, we're just full of surprises," Dean growled back.

Slowly, as if relishing the moment, the man turned to face them, stepping gracefully into the light of the lamp, lifting his face with a slow roll of his long neck until his sharp blue eyes rested on their faces, appearing to look at each directly with one glance.

As long as he lived, Sam knew he would never forget the look held fast in the eyes of the fallen angel. There was a force in those icy-blue depths that stole the air from Sam's lungs, shook his resolve; it was a terrible force, a strength as relentless and merciless as any demon Sam had ever come up against. Worse even than death itself.

He risked a glance at Dean and was strangely relieved when he saw none of the awe he felt cross his brother's face. Instead, there was outraged incredulity.

"Son. Of. A. Bitch." Dean uttered the words as if when spoken alone each held the same power as the whole. His jaw was rigid, his lips practically white they were pulled so tight across his teeth.

"No, actually, I never had a mother," the angel replied, his voice cool, serene, his head tilted slightly to the side as if in thought.

Sam stared at Dean, willing his brother's eyes on him, confused by his brother's reaction. Dean shot a look to Sam, his face a display of shock, and whispered. "It's… Bob." His voice was choked, breath strangled.

"Bob?" Sam whispered, unable to tear his eyes away from Dean's face, needing once again for Dean to deny the truth, save him from what was too real.

"The fuckin' _maintenance man_ at the motel," Dean spat out, turning back to Bob as if his eyes were pulled there by force.

_Holy shit... How did I miss that? _Sam shot his eyes back to the man standing before them. He was slim with pale, flawless features, cheekbones so chiseled they threw shadows onto his own face, and yellow hair that glinted silver in the light from the lantern. Sam blinked. It was as though the man had removed a mask of normalcy to reveal his true nature. He was dressed in loose-fitting black pants and a dark shirt, untucked. _I saw wings_… Sam swallowed, almost afraid to picture the wings Dean had seen folded and hidden inside of the shirt.

_No… I believed… I __**trusted**__ you…_ Sam didn't know who or what his heart was screaming at, but he felt the pain of betrayal cut deep enough to stall his breath, deep enough to bruise his heart, too deep, even, for tears.

The mewling rose a notch and Sam shifted his eyes to the man seated on the hay bale behind Bob. Seeing the man's hands shift slightly, Sam gasped.

"What are you _doing_?! Stop!" He stepped forward, bumping Dean's elbow slightly with his movement. Bob's voice halted his steps.

"No," Bob said sweetly. "No, in fact he cannot stop, Samuel. He is_compelled_ to pay for his sin."

Sam felt Dean's growl before the sound rumbled from his brother's chest. He felt Dean's anger as acutely as his own sense of betrayal. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Dean raise his shot gun, stepping forward out of an instinct to protect. Sam tightened his grip on his own shotgun, watching with horror as the barrel resting on Dean's left hand suddenly glowed a bright orange.

Dean cried out, dropping the gun and shaking his hand as if to rid himself of the pain with the movement. Sam shot his eyes back to Bob, his chest quaking a bit at the lethal light he saw illuminate those eyes.

"The hell? Freakin' supernatural Superman!" Dean snarled, shifting his body in an almost unconscious movement so that he was standing a bit in front of Sam.

Bob ignored Dean's comparison and continued with his placid explanation. "Carlos, you see, wanted Michael Reese's land. He wanted it, and the prize stallion the man spent his life's earnings raising. And Carlos knew people, didn't you, Carlos?"

Bob rolled his head gracefully on his shoulders to look back at the man seated on the hay bale. Dean shot his eyes to Carlos and heard his own exclamation of horror echoed in Sam's outraged cry from behind him. Carlos had shifted his hands and the brothers could now see the damage he was inflicting upon himself at the behest of the angel.

Blood poured from the man's eyes, coating his face, running across his lips, bubbling with his whimpers. His right eye has been sewn completely shut with what looks like bailing wire and he has started in on his left. His hands tremble as the needle perforated the tender skin of his eyelid, his painful bleating increasing.

"Oh my God," Sam breathed, stepping forward once more.

Instinctively, though everything inside of him screamed at him to stop this, to end it, Dean shot his arm out, halting Sam's advance, keeping Sam behind him. Anger, bright, hot, alive, churned in his chest, amplifying the sound of his heart as its beat shook him. He wanted this guy _dead_. Gritting his teeth, his jaw muscle trembling, he kept his rage-filled eyes on Bob, trying to figure out how to stop Carlos and get Sam out of there before the angel went supernova on them.

Without turning back to them, Bob continued, his body relaxed, his voice almost dreamy as if he were watching someone paint a landscape and not annihilate their own features. "Carlos got his friend Ryan to work some government paperwork magic, and cheated poor Michael Reese out of his land. Didn't you, Carlos?"

The man on the hay bale was now trembling from head to foot; his wet whimpers had turned to gurgles as the blood from his eyes filled his mouth.

"You offered to return it to him for the horse or the value of the horse... neither of which poor Michael Reese could afford to part with," Bob shook his head almost sadly.

"So... you decided that Carlos should be punished?" Sam barked. Dean felt his brother press against his outstretched arm with the desire to stop the madness before him. "What gives you the right to—"

"**Centuries**!" Bob's bellow was terrible. He turned to them, facing them with eyes alight with power. His voice shook particles of hay from the rafters of the barn and the brothers automatically flinched away from the sound as if it had physically slammed into them.

Bob stepped forward, away from Carlos, directly at them. Dean pressed Sam back one step, but held his ground.

"Centuries I have _watched_ you, protected you, _fought_ for you, and all you ever do is **fail**!" Bob yelled, his eyes shifting from Dean to Sam. He stopped moving an arms length from Dean and kept his eyes on Sam, his long, slim fingers spread out on either side of his body. "Sin and complain and fail. Never a thank you, never a praise. _And. He. Loves. You. More!_"

Bob's lips twitched with his pent up rage, his eyes boring into Sam. Dean resisted the urge to look back at Sam, knowing that the eyes of the angel had to be searing his brother's fractured soul. There was something in the angel's expression as he looked at Sam, something shifting across his face. Something almost like… disbelief, wonder, realization.

Dean felt a sudden chill at that look. He tightened his jaw, his lips twitching. He needed to pull Bob's attention to him before the angel devoured Sam with his eyes.

"Cry me a river," Dean snapped, drawing Bob's horrible stare. "You want us to feel sorry for you, you freak?"

His words had the intended effect: Bob was no longer looking at Sam. Dean swallowed, taking the impact of the angel's angry gaze, unable to tear his eyes away. He never saw Bob raise his hand. He only registered the shift in Bob's eyes from outright anger to cool malice and slight indifference.

Without warning, Dean's body ceased to obey his commands. He tried to move his arm, tried to open his mouth. He saw Bob flick the corner of his mouth in a cruel smile. Dean felt his lips begin to tingle and tried to pull in breath, but it was as if his lungs had been flattened. His eyes began to burn, pinned to the cold blue depths of the angel. He couldn't move, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't blink.

_No… no freakin' way I'm gonna be a puppet for this psycho…_

"Dean? What—"

Sam's voice was young and scared, unsure and struggling. It was the voice from his nightmares, the sound of his name on Sam's lips right before the knife plunged into Sam's back. The sound of his failure.

Pulling every sleepless night, every nightmare, every moment of helpless frustration from behind his wall, Dean used the effort to fuel one step forward, letting the fire behind his eyes burn into Bob, showing the angel his will. Bob stepped back, narrowing his eyes. Dean felt one moment of triumph.

Then Bob smiled. Dean's world went cold.

Bob shoved his hand out again, this time with concentrated force, and Dean screamed as his body was rocked back, then held fast in an invisible grip of power. His cry of pain was cut off abruptly when Bob began to lift his hand slowly. Dean felt himself raised off of the ground, his perception altering from Bob's face to the back barn wall.

"I don't want your pity, Dean Winchester," Bob said, gently.

"Dean!" Sam called, and Dean felt his brother's hands briefly against his leg, then heard a shallow _ooff_ as Sam was pulled away. "Let him go! You sick freak! Let. Him. GO! _Dean!_"

Dean heard the hammer of Sam's shotgun cock and felt himself being shifted as Bob swung his suspended body around as a barrier between himself and Sam. He heard Sam curse and the echoing sound of the gun clattering to the ground. Sounds of Sam's ineffectual struggle drifted up to Dean as Bob raised him higher until he was nearly level with the barn loft.

The edges of his burning vision began to gray, crinkling like crumpled tissue paper. His heart echoed with a panicked force in his ears as it began to suffocate, drowning in his oxygen-deprived body. Dean wanted desperately to look at Sam, to make sure he was okay, but he was powerless. Bob spread his fingers wide and Dean felt his limbs responding, arms and legs stretching to the side, to their limit. He wanted to scream, to rebel, but was silent, his screams dying inside of him as they were denied escape. He felt his jaw tremble in protest.

"I don't want _anything_ from… you," Bob continued.

"Let him go you _bastard!_"

Dean heard Sam struggling, fighting, and ached to close his eyes.

_That's it, Sammy… give him Hell…Aw, God… this hurts…_

Dean's heart bled, his lungs screamed. He was being pulled apart, shattered. As his world began to fade to black, one sensation burned bright: hate. He hated this… _being_ for what it had done, for what it was doing. He wanted to destroy it; he vowed to destroy it before it took its revenge on another soul. Before it took Sam…

"In fact," Bob said, as if just considering an option. "I want you to go… away."

Bob flicked his fingers as if brushing away a fly and Dean was suddenly released. He felt himself freefall for a split second, gasping in the air his body had been denied. Then, fisting his hands as if holding an invisible bat, Bob swung his arms through the air and Dean went flying with an abbreviated cry, slamming face-first against the upper wall of the hay loft and sinking into darkness in a pile of loose limbs.

Bob's eyes drank in the sight of Dean's body sailing into the hay loft, his smile growing at the startled cry, the sound of a skull connecting with the wall before he ceased to move. He didn't see Sam coming, but he felt him approaching with startling speed one second too late.

Sam slammed into Bob, connecting his elbow into his side, taking them both to the ground. Sam didn't waste time; with Bob pinned to the floor beneath him, he began to slam punch after punch into Bob's face. Each soft crunch of flesh against flesh appeared to do nothing, but Sam kept at it, drilling home each fist in rapid succession.

No blood was drawn from Bob's face, no bruises appeared beneath his porcelain-like flesh, but red smears started to appear as Sam's own knuckles split open, spilling against the angel's face. Sam was tiring quickly, frustration ripping him apart from the inside out as Bob did nothing but take the hits with no change in expression.

"I believed!" Sam growled, his words spattering out from the wounds on his soul, the hollowness all of this had created. He gasped, repeating, 'I believed' every time he brought down his arms. "I believed, but I was wrong!"

Bob started to laugh, causing Sam to pause, fist poised above the angel's face. Bob smiled up at Sam curtly, right before he thrust the flat of his hand against Sam's chest. The force of the blow was enough to rocket Sam across the room, rolling back toward the door as he hit the ground. Sam's back came to rest against Dean's shotgun, the metal digging deep into the muscle.

Sam worked to regain his breath in short burst, forcing himself to roll over the weapon and grab it up on his way to his feet. He staggered a little, the shotgun going loose in his fingers for a brief second as the room blurred around him. He tightened his grip, raising the shotgun and bringing it level with Bob's chest as soon as the angel stood. Sam fought the tremors in his hands, stilling them as he watched Bob turn toward him.

Sam's breathing became even more difficult as he took in the sight before him. Fallen or not, evil or not, wrong or not, the angel was majestic. More than Sam had been able to imagine from the stories and picture he's looked at throughout his life. The angel's ethereal blue eyes were blazing with power, glowing in the shade of the shadows cast over his face. He unfurled his wings, the span nearly the width of the barn aisle. One wing was darkened, weakened and broken looking, but the appearance of both commanded awe. Bob spread them out, accompanied by his arms, as if to challenge Sam.

And provided the perfect target.

Sam took aim at the darker wing and fired both barrels of rock salt without hesitation. The rounds sunk into the mangled feathers, sending them flying in a flurry of blood and down. Bob folded in on himself, screaming, reacting, and the cry shook straight through Sam, paralyzing him. The sound the angel made was like thousands of voices speaking at once, and Sam almost doubled over from the way that each one tore chunks out of his core. He closed his eyes, fighting the urge to drop the shotgun and cover his ears.

Bob recovered, seething, and started for Sam once again.

_Oh shit!_

Sam broke down the shotgun, fumbling fingers tripping over the rounds, reloaded, and brought up the gun right as Bob was upon him. He fired again with Bob's chest almost pressed against the barrel, causing the same soul-shattering sound to erupt from the angel's lips.

Rolling to his side, Sam took full advantage of the distraction and darted into the shadows of one of the empty horse stalls while Bob continued to writhe. Sam looked back toward the loft where Dean had been thrown, wanting desperately to get past Bob and check on him. He was about to make his way there, when he saw Dean coming down the ladder, one arm pressed against his chest, blood coating one side of his face. He watched as Dean scanned the darkness for him, and Sam could see how badly Dean wanted to call out for him. Sam stayed low, watching as Dean shifted his focus to Carlos. In just a few strides, Dean reached the man and tried to get him to stop destroying himself. Dean grabbed hold of the man's wrists, but seemed to be finding it impossible to move Carlos' hands away from his eyes.

Sam swallowed, moving his gaze away from his brother and trying to find a way to get to them. But Bob was near, Sam knew, even though he couldn't see him. He could feel him...

"You believed in what exactly, Samuel?" Bob voice shot out of the darkness, and Sam moved along the wall away from the origin of the sound.

Sam was surprised by Bob's inability to find him. Why the angel couldn't feel Sam as Sam could feel him. Maybe he was playing around. Or maybe, Sam had to surmise, even heavenly beings, especially those out of favor with God, had their limits.

He crouched down lower, breaking open the shotgun again and reloading. At least he knew how to stun it. As for killing it… Sam had some serious doubts that was even possible.

"I know you're a believer," Bob continued to taunt. "I could hear your prayers, the things you feared, the pathetic pleas that you'd put forth. How many of them were answered, Sam? How many were ignored? Your brother still suffers, your father's dead, and soon, very soon Samuel, you're going to be alone. No mother, no father, no girlfriend… no brother. God doesn't listen!" Bob said with a laugh. "When are you going to get it?! You should know this by now. He's got very selective hearing. He _doesn't care_."

Sam pressed himself back against the wall, shotgun held barrel up, his eyes closed. He was trying to ignore Bob's words, but some of the things being said were breaking through. These were Sam's thoughts, his doubts, his fears. Sam had spent so much time hoping, that when doubt clawed at the back door of his mind, he was finding it harder and harder to not let it in. _Especially_ now.

Especially now with Dean dying slowly within the span of a year, with everything Sam ever loved being ripped right out of his hands, with every prayer screamed at a closed door, and all he could hear were more dead bolts sliding into place on the other side. It was hard not to let every word drip like acid against his already faltering faith.

"I'm doing everyone a favor, Sam. I'm simply doing to humanity what you and your brother do to demons. I'm ridding the world of evil. Come on, Sam. Tell me, what was it like? What was it like to find out about the dirty underbelly of these seemingly innocent people? _Nobody_ is innocent Sam. Not priests, not nice ladies who run greenhouses, or fathers, or nephews, or brothers…"

Sam's eyes shot open, realizing with horror that he'd been so engrossed in listening that he hadn't heard the approach until he felt the presence like a spear through the chest coming from in front of him.

Bob had found him.

Standing before him, wings folded, eyes burning bright, Bob's face held a promise for Sam: _I'll end this for you. I'll at least answer your prayers to end your suffering_.

"Or you, Samuel," Bob said softly.

To Sam, it was as if he was screaming in Sam's face, mocking him for years of believing in something so strongly that he would bleed inside. At those words something snapped within him.

With an almost primal roar, Sam fired the weapon at Bob at point blank range. This time, instead of injuring the angel, stunning it, nothing happened. Bob laughed as the rounds dissipated around him harmlessly and advanced. He grabbed Sam by the throat, lifting him up. Sam dropped the shotgun, kicking to get free as the seemingly smaller man raised him off the ground without any effort at all. Bob backed him out of the stall and into the barn opening, ignoring the way Sam struggled, clawing at the fingers around his neck to no avail.

Bob advanced until they were near a support beam and then slammed Sam back into it, hard. He pinned him there, feeling the way Sam's throat worked against his hand, watching the boy's kicking start to slow.

"There's nothing you can do, Sam. No point in fighting so hard for nothing."

Sam was spinning, unable to draw in breath. The dark was gathering thickly at the edges of his vision, starting to pull across and take him down into nothing. His hands dropped to his side loosely, the fight in them gone to the lead-like weight that had set into his fingertips. Even though his vision was dying out, he could still hear Bob against the blood-induced, steadily increasing white noise in his head.

Bob slid Sam down the pillar so that they were at eye level, knowing Sam was too weak to find strength in his legs, his hand never loosening around Sam's throat. Bob moved his mouth next to Sam's ear, whispering into it with a sickening tone, glancing the edges of sympathy.

"Lucifer's minions will come for Dean. They'll drag him down in to the pit, burn him alive, tear him apart and rip open his soul for eternity, Sam. There is nothing you can do. No amount of praying is going to stop that."

Sam blinked back against the tears lacing his lashes, trying to breathe, trying to beat this even though everything inside of him wanted to shut down.

"_**HEY**_!"

Dean's voice filled the entire domed barn, forcing Bob's attention away from Sam.

Bob turned his head to the side and saw Dean standing with his .45 trained on Bob's head, his eyes smoldering with determination. Dean only paused long enough to know that he had Bob's attention, then squeezed the trigger. The bullet passed through Bob as cleanly as it had passed through the air, but he hadn't been aiming to kill.

Dean wanted the angel to switch focus, to take a shot at him and leave Sam. But to Dean's horror, the being spread its wings and shot into the air dragging Sam with him. It moved up into the hay loft, and slammed Sam back against three metal hay claws jutting out from the edge.

"Sam!"

Sam found what little air he had left and screamed as the metal raked the flesh of his back, opening him up. Bob pulled him back for a moment, before hooking him by his jacket, leaving him to dangle in mid-air. Sam's head fell onto his chest, and he could feel warmth running down his back. He looked down at Dean, taking in the horror on his brother's face before Bob dropped down between them, blocking Sam's view with his wings.

Dean opened fire, not caring if it would only make the damn thing pissed. He wanted to empty the whole weapon's cache on this bastard's ass. Bob jerked with each bullet but kept coming. Dean emptied the entire clip, and started to reach for another, when he stumbled over Sam's shotgun. He looked down at it then back at Bob who'd stopped moving long enough to gloat at Dean's worthless efforts.

"Rock salt will do very little," he said, moving again until he was right on Dean, almost touching him.

Dean stared into the deep blue of the angel's eyes, unfaltering, unwavering, rage fueled to the point of almost inhuman steadiness.

"Yeah?" He said with a smirk. "How 'bout we try this, then."

He brought up the flask of holy water without blinking, splashing the over Bob's face, right into the blue eyes he'd been staring down.

Bob's screams shook the entire barn, filled with pain that hadn't been present before. He backed away, blinking in terror, as Dean watched the slashes of red, welted skin start to appear.

"It's not possible…" the angle breathed, hands going to his face, feeling out the raw, fresh wounds.

Dean advanced again, throwing more of the sacred water. Bob brought up his good wing, covering himself with it like a shield. The water fell harmlessly against the feathers. Bob glanced over at Carlos, saw that the man had perished, and shifted his eyes back to Dean.

"Six down," Bob announced.

Dean turned his head to look at Carlos and felt the strong wind created by the beating of wings.

The angel was gone.

Dean shot his eyes back toward the opened barn door, gaping at the blackened feather that drifted slowly to the dirt floor for a fraction of a second. Turning from the door, Dean pulled his knife from his back sheath on the run as he headed to the ladder he'd just descended, heading up to the loft.

"I can't believe that just fuckin' happened," he whispered to himself as he climbed.

Swinging off the top of the ladder, Dean used the back of his hand to wipe some blood from his eye. His body felt like one massive bruise, and his head ached into his teeth, his leg stung mercilessly. He was pretty sure that knock against the wall had rattled something loose inside, but he didn't have time to worry about that now. _Friggin' homicidal angel… _

He reached Sam and skidded to a halt, panting. Sam didn't lift his head, but Dean could see him breathing, could see shudders coursing through his brother's limbs.

"Aw, shit, Sammy," he breathed, kneeling down to get closer to Sam's dangling form. "Okay, okay, man, I'm here… Shit, I'm gonna have to… Sam? Hey, Sam, you with me?"

Sam grunted, but didn't move. Dean swallowed, bracing his body against the post, anchoring himself, and reaching around to wrap his left arm across Sam's chest. Angling the blade of his Bowie up, he poised it to slip between Sam's jacket and the hay hooks.

"Sam," Dean said, pitching his voice low, pulling his father from his gut and throwing the command to listen at his brother in the form of his own name. Sam blinked, bobbing his head up once. "That's it. That's it, listen, Sam… _Sam_. You listening?"

Sam nodded slowly.

"I need you to grab onto my arm. Just grab me real tight, okay?"

Sam lifted his right arm, reaching a shaking hand to Dean's shoulder and Dean felt his fingers dig in.

"Okay, good, you just hang on… I'm gonna… cut your jacket… there—whoa!"

Sam shifted suddenly and both brothers tightened their grip. Dean dropped his knife to the barn floor below as he grappled with Sam's taller form, pulling him over the edge of the barn loft and half onto his lap. They were both trembling from the effort, Dean's wounded right hand throbbing from overuse, his face alight with the pain of impact with the barn wall.

Sam groaned trying in vain to push himself up, falling against Dean in a shivering heap. Dean swore softly at the sight of the three grooves he could plainly see through Sam's ruined jacket and shirt. Blood was beginning to soak into the tattered material and Dean felt a hot shimmy of pain slide through his heart at the sight of blood on Sam's back.

"You're okay," Dean whispered, holding Sam in an awkward, tangled embrace, trying to access the reserves of energy he knew he needed to get them out of there. "You're okay, Sammy."

He felt Sam shiver again, and twisted his shoulders to work his jacket free, flipping it around and wrapping it across Sam's shoulders. He lifted his eyes to the ladder, then looked around for another way down. He wasn't going to be able to carry Sam down the ladder; right now he was having doubts about getting down himself.

_One break… is that too much to ask? One fuckin' break is all we need…_

"Sam," Dean tapped his brother's pale cheek. "Sam, I need you to open your eyes, man."

Sam raised his eyebrows, working to do as Dean asked.

"That's it," Dean tapped him again. "C'mon, kiddo."

"Y'never call me that," Sam whispered.

"Huh?"

"Kiddo," Sam blinked his eyes open. "Dad useta."

"Yeah, I remember," Dean said softly, frowning. In that moment, he felt very alone. "Listen, Sam, you're gonna have to help me, okay? We gotta get out of here."

"'K." Sam nodded, tightening his stomach muscles as Dean eased him up.

They worked together to get to their feet and made their way to the ladder, Sam leaning heavily on Dean.

"I'll go down first," Dean said.

"Why?"

"So if you fall—"

"I can squash you?" Sam's words were slurred, his blink slow. Looking up at him from the ladder rung, Dean could see that his eyes were unfocused.

"Just one rung at a time, okay?" Dean said, making his way slowly down the ladder, his hands never straying too far from Sam's feet.

Dropping to the ground, Dean reached for Sam, easing his brother's arm over his shoulder and turning them from the ladder. Their eyes landed on Carlos Montoya's mangled face at the same time. Dean swallowed. Sam shuddered.

"We couldn't even save one," Sam whispered. "Not even one."

Dean frowned, turning Sam away from Carlos and moving in a staggered, wavering walk toward the barn door.

"Yes, we can, Sam. There's one more, right?"

"We'll be too late."

"Don't. Don't think like that, okay? There's one more. We'll save that one, Sammy, you gotta believe that."

Sam stumbled and Dean grunted as his brother's weight sagged in his tired, aching arms. Pulling Sam forward, Dean focused on the Impala, using the gleam of black in the barn light as a beacon of home.

"I don't think I can," Sam muttered.

"Can what?"

"Believe," Sam said. "I don't think I believe in anything anymore, Dean. There's just so much… so much evil in the world."

Dean reached the Impala and propped Sam against the side as he fished out the keys and unlocked the back door.

"Well, that's why we're here, right?" He said, opening the door. "To stop it. To kill as many of these evil sonsabitches as we can."

Bodily turning Sam, he helped his brother ease down onto the seat, his back to Dean. Sam slumped forward, resting his forehead on the back of the seat. Dean pulled his jacket free and looked at the blood congealing on Sam's back.

"Don't move," Dean said, heading to the trunk. _At least we have all our supplies,_ Dean breathed a sigh of relief as he unzipped his bag and grabbed the first aid kit. Heading back to Sam, he set the kit down and crouched in front of his brother's bleeding back, balanced on the balls of his feet.

"How can we stop it, Dean?"

"We will," Dean said, carefully cutting the back out of Sam's jacket and shirt with scissors from the kit.

"_How_?" Sam pressed his face into the cool leather of the seat. "Even the good guys are working against us."

"Don't think that way, Sammy, not you," Dean paused, dropping his head for a moment. Sam was his anchor, his grip on the light. If Sam lost faith… "You have to forget what that freak said, Sam. He's just one, okay? One angel in an army of thousands."

Tossing the ruined part of Sam's shirt to the ground, Dean reached for the antiseptic, halted as Sam turned his head and his brother's shattered eyes caught his in the darkness.

"One deal with one demon is going to take you away from me," Sam whispered.

Dean felt his lips twitch, his jaw tighten. Sam rolled his head away, closing his eyes. Taking a breath, Dean wet a cloth with antiseptic and began to clean the gouges in Sam's back, wincing in silent sympathy when Sam arched away with a pained hiss. As Sam moved, though, his shirt shifted and Dean caught a wound he'd missed.

Sliding his fingers under the material of the shirt, Dean saw that the cut across Sam's shoulder blade wasn't from the hay hooks… it was a bit older.

"Sam."

"Mmm."

"Did you get… did you get hurt in the apartment building last night?"

"'s okay, Dean."

"Not my question."

"Yes, okay," Sam sighed tiredly. "I got cut."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Dean asked, his voice tight as he inspected the crusted, bruised flesh on Sam's shoulder blade.

"Because you were on fire," Sam said softly. "Because you can't fix everything. Because I can take care of myself."

"Sam—"

"Because I'm going to _have to_ take care of myself…" Sam finished softly.

His words hit Dean like a punch to the gut. He was going to leave Sam. There was no way around it. His jaw trembled. He was going to leave Sam in a world of evil with a heart devoid of hope.

_Over my dead body_… He thought without a trace of irony.

"I'm gonna patch these cuts up, but you're gonna need a couple of stitches," Dean said softly.

"'K."

"Help me a sec," Dean said, cutting up through the back collar of Sam's shirt and jacket, then tugged softly on the garments.

Sam groaned, then pulled his ruined shirt and jacket off from the front. He sat, slumped and shirtless as Dean finished cleaning the gouges, then placed several gauze pads over the wounds, wrapping rolled gauze around Sam's middle to hold the bandages in place. By the time he finished, Sam was shivering, his skin warm with reaction to the wounds. Dean grabbed his jacket and wrapped it around his brother once more.

"You okay?" Dean asked as Sam slid forward, resting on his side, his back toward the front seat.

"Yeah," Sam lied.

"I'll be right back," Dean started to pull away.

"Wait!" Sam called out. Dean ducked immediately back into the opening of the car door. "Where are you going?"

"Get our guns," Dean said.

Turning from Sam, he shut the back door, then started to sprint toward the barn. He was forced to pull up when sharp jabs like stitches in his lungs shot through his chest and echoes across his back. He was not doing good, but he had to hold it together… he had to keep them together. For however long he had left, he had to do his job.

Gathering the shotguns and his .45, he cast about for his Bowie, finding it in the dirt about five feet from Carlos' body. Glancing at the dead man, Dean snarled, his lip curling with the sting of hate he could still taste in the back of his throat.

"We got one more," Dean repeated. "We're gonna save that one."

He returned to the Impala as quickly as his aching body would allow, dropping the weapons into the trunk, then slid behind the wheel. He glanced at Sam in his rear-view mirror, momentarily surprised by his own reflection. The right side of his face was dark from blood and dirt, his eyebrow and lashes matted with it. He looked like an extra in a Wes Craven movie. Wincing, he tilted his head, probing gently until he found the source of the blood: a slice in his scalp just below his hairline.

Grabbing the cloth he'd used on Sam, still-damp with antiseptic, he found a relatively clean corner and made a half-hearted attempt to clean some of the blood away. Shifting his eyes to Sam, he watched his brother's shoulders rise and fall in the rhythm of breath.

"You with me, Sam?"

"Yeah," Sam's voice was muffled. "We going back to Mercy?"

"No friggin' way," Dean shook his head. He watched in the mirror as Sam shifted, turning his head so that his face was angled up. Dean fired up the Impala, sliding his elbow over the back seat and reversing out of the barn lot.

"We don't know anywhere else, Dean… and the angel's gonna kill another—"

"Sam, that dude was watching us the whole time. He _played_ us. No way am I taking you back there."

"But—"

"Sam," Dean pulled onto the dark, dirt road, his eyes burning from exhaustion, blood, and anger. "I'm not letting some freak with wings beat us. I'm not."

Sam pulled himself slowly to a half-sitting position. Dean met his eyes in the mirror.

"But I'm not making it easy for him to get you, either."

"Get_us_," Sam said softly.

Dean looked back at the road, tightening his grip on the wheel, not answering. Sam stayed sitting forward, his arms crossed over the back of the seat, his head resting on his arms, his elbow touching Dean's shoulder. Dean kept his eyes on the road, searching for an angel-free motel as they reached the main road once more. The car was silent, leaving ample room for thoughts of salvation and redemption at war with betrayal and pain.

"This'll work," Dean said, spotting a sign for a motel about 10 miles outside of Mercy. He pulled in to the parking lot, tossing a glance at Sam. "Wait here. I'll get us a room."

He returned a few minutes later with the room key, and helped Sam out of the car. Dean took it slow, trying to feel out Sam's condition as his brother leaned into him and used him as a makeshift crutch. Sam remained partly doubled over, unwilling to straighten his back, and with every step toward the room, Dean felt Sam's weight grow heavier against him.

Dean juggled supporting Sam and unlocking the door, breathing relief when the lock didn't give him much trouble, and moved them both toward the bed. Dean eased Sam down onto the mattress and didn't miss the way that his brother seemed to be looking right through him.

"Hey, you still with me?" Dean asked, trying not to give much credit to the way Sam's face distorted within his own blurring vision.

_Take care of Sam first, dammit, then you can fall apart. Pull yourself together! _

Dean watched as Sam nodded despondently in response to his question. He had been hoping for something more than that, but anything other than a blank stare, especially after what Sam had said earlier—had to be thinking now—was better than nothing. He couldn't let Sam fold in on himself.

Dean helped him remove his shirt and instructed him to lay down on his stomach. At the first pain-filled gasp, Dean stepped in and helped Sam rotate onto his front, taking care not the stretch the muscles in his back any more than they had to complete the once simple action.

"What did the clerk say 'bout your head?" Sam asked quietly.

It was the first thing Dean had heard him say in a while, and he was more focused on the fact that Sam was speaking again than the actual question. When Sam continued to stare at him expectantly, he snapped out of it, quickly searching for the original question in his exhausted mind. He'd forgotten about the cut on his head until Sam had mentioned it, and as if speaking about it brought it into existence, he could feel it start to pulse dully with pain.

"Oh, uh, he was too distracted with a rerun of Baywatch to notice my head."

The ghosting of a smile started with Sam but didn't finish, and Dean's throat constricted.

_What I would give to return to you what that bastard stole…_

Dean brought out their med kit and the supplies they used to suture up their wounds. He looked at Sam's back; the bandges were already saturated with blood and in need of being changed. He gathered some towels from the bathroom and the waste basket and started to peel off the old bandages.

He tossed the first one into the trash, cleaned up the wound with antiseptic and the towel, then felt around the edge of the jagged opening. There was red, hot, angry raised flesh, and Dean hoped it would calm down, and that infection wasn't already settling in. He could feel the heat of fever radiating off of Sam's body… the heat that was building in his own flesh as he worked to patch his brother up.

Sam's shoulders pulled together a few times in pain, but he remained silent as Dean sewed him up carefully. There was nothing to ease the pain, but Sam didn't appear to need anything, and that both relieved and scared Dean. The causes of that kind of numbness…

It took all that Dean had to steady his hands, to focus past the fog that was trying to set in around his eyes, but the last stitch went in, and the last piece of gauze taped into place. He wiped at the sweat on his brow with the back of his hand and tossed the last bloody cloth into the waste basket.

His eyes returned to the cut along Sam's shoulder from the night before, anger rising at the sight of it. He cleaned it the best he could and covered it with antibiotic ointment and gauze, wishing he'd been able to get to that one sooner, hoping that the ignored wound wouldn't be the cause of anything more severe.

_Why didn't you say something? _

He knew why. Sam had told him why. He just didn't like the answer…

"G'me minute…'ll patch your cut," Sam said, fighting the weight of his eyelids.

"Just get some sleep, Sam. I'll be all right."

Dean didn't have to suggest it twice. He watched as Sam closed his eyes, then turned his head, burying his face into the pillow. Dean stayed sitting beside him, watching as Sam's back rose and fell. His breaths eventually deepened and evened out, evidence that Sam was far away from a world that had shattered apart beneath his feet. Sam was safe, for now, behind the dark curtains of dreamless sleep. Dean turned reached out the lights beside the bed and sat there with Sam in the quiet of the room.

It was a while before Dean could move, drawn into the simple sound and vague movement that was, what he hoped, indicative a moment of peace for Sam.

_Believe. I don't think I believe in anything anymore, Dean. There's just so much… so much evil in the world…_

Dean, his steepled index fingers against his lips, listened to his brother's words replay through his mind. Something inside kept twisting painfully every time he thought about those words, every time he came back to the hopelessness in his brother's eyes.

_One deal with one demon is going to take you away from me._

Dean pressed into his eyes with a quiet groan, stopping after the release of pressure that had been building behind them gave away to pain. Dean moved his eyes, dry and heavy in his skull, toward the clock on the bed stand. It would be a while until the sun came up, but he'd be able to make it. He'd stay up and watch Sam, make sure that his breathing stayed regular, that infection hadn't snuck past all the antiseptic…that angels who were supposed to be looking out for him didn't come and try to take Sam away.

But first, he needed to clean up. The blood from his head wound had already dried against his skin, tightening it uncomfortably, pulling down the cut at his hairline. The small wound was a semi-wet mess of clot and hair, and he touched the area around it tenderly, knowing he would have to sew this one up himself.

He pushed to his feet, stopping for a moment as the ground pitched upward, and his legs felt like they wouldn't be able to bear his weight. He fought the weakness, straightening, closing his eyes until the ground beneath his feet seemed to stop trembling. Once balanced again, he moved toward the bathroom at a crawling pace, grabbing up the duffel and kit he'd used to patch up Sam along the way.

Throwing the duffel against the tub, he closed the door behind him so the lights wouldn't bother Sam. He turned them on wearily, wincing the second they flared to life. He shut them off again, reaching above the sink and unscrewing one of the light bulbs to dim the room. He flipped the switch again, embracing the lessened light, and leaned close to the mirror to inspect the cut.

He'd done the best he could to clean it up in the car, but his face was still streaked with crusted blood, the cut itself red and inflamed, sticky. He grabbed up a washcloth and started to wash his face, blood swirling around the drain as the he reopened the cut to clean out the clot. His hissed, pulling his breath as the antiseptic he'd placed on a cloth seared throughout the gouge, causing his eyes to water.

He reached one arm over his back, pulling up his shirt and pulling it off so he could check for any more injuries. Places along the muscles of his arms and upper back were growing dark with bruising. Combined with the yellowing ones from earlier in the week, he looked like he'd tattooed his entire upper back. _Friggin' angel!_

Dean threw the washcloth and his shirt into the tub, and picked up another towel from the bar. The cold feeling in his gut was being replaced, filling with anger, hatred.

_Demons and angels. Why the hell can't they just fight each other and leave humankind out of it?_ Dean grabbed hold of the side of the sink, bracing himself as he felt a rush of blood to his head, felt the ground tilt again. His grip tightened, his knuckles going white as he thought about how he felt like a pawn in a fucking universal chess match.

"What's the point, huh?" Dean growled.

The hollow dripping of water in the sink was his only reply.

Dean took up the first aid kit, taking a needle and his lighter, balancing one hip against the sink. He was so fucking tired, and he wanted answers. He wanted to know why all of this was going on. What the hell had they done to deserve this?

After sterilizing the needle, preparing it with unsteady hands, and unfocused eyes, he set to work on sewing himself up. He didn't have anything to numb the pain, and by the last stitch, his hands were shaking so badly he thought for sure he'd drive the damn thing straight through his skull. But he managed to tie it off, and dab at the tiny trails of blood that had collected t his brow, before the tremors traveled the length of his body and he had to take a seat at the edge of the tub.

_Because I'm going to have to take care of myself…_

Dean sat in the numbing silence, skin jumping, gut curling, heart pounding until he couldn't stand it anymore. He was going to lose everything…he'd sold his soul to save Sam and he was going to lose him anyway. He was going to die…long after Sam had already given up.

Dean reached down into the duffel he'd thrown beside the tub, searching for something to stop the throbbing in his head. His shaky hands wrapped around the bottle of pills, but when he attempted to open them, they spilled out all over the bathroom floor. Dean swore, and threw the pill bottle at the mirror with an aggravated yell. The bottle clattered into the sink, and Dean shut his eyes against the way the sound pierced through his already aching head.

It was then that the twisting within grew in intensity, and quickly turned to nausea. Dean launched himself at the open toilet grabbing the sides in an attempt to steady himself against the heaving he couldn't hold back. He hadn't eaten anything in hours, nothing surfaced, and when his body decided to stop convulsing against the nausea, he sunk back against the wall, gasping, weak, wasted.

He wondered if he was concussed, then after another world jarring loss of vision, he knew he had to be. Head swollen, unable to stop everything from spinning, he was too spent to do much but lean against the coolness of the bathroom wall and wait.

Time passed painfully slow, before Dean felt like he could attempt to stand again. He used the wall and the toilet to pull himself up, then moved dazedly back into the room. He sat on his bed, moving up onto it until his back was flush with the wall.

Dean looked over at Sam, checking for breathing through the dark, and satisfied only when he could hear soft snoring. He'd watch Sam. Watch over him. Make sure the nightmares didn't hold him too long. Make sure Sam knew that he wasn't alone and he wasn't going to be alone. Not now at least. His big brother was here and as long as he was around nothing bad was going to happen to him... at least not again…

Dean looked at the Gideon Bible sitting on the nightstand between the beds, to Sam, then lifted his eyes briefly.

"You know," Dean whispered through worn lips, "A little interference now and then isn't such a bad thing."

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a/n: The final chapter will be posted 2nd or 3rd week of November, once SJ gets back from her honeymoon. An epilogue will follow at some point after that. Thanks all for reading and letting us know what you think. We wouldn't want to do this without you.

Playlist:

_Stairway to Heaven_ by Led Zeppelin

_Bullet the Blue Sky_ by U2

_In My Time of Dying_ by Led Zeppelin

_Bloody Sunday_ on the horizon…


	7. Sunday: Wrath

**Disclaimer/Spoilers/Authors:** See Chapter 1.

a/n: And we've come to Sunday. Thanks so much for your reviews, for reading, for lurking, for sticking with us. We're both kinda sad to see this story coming to a close but we so greatly appreciate the attention ya'll have given it.

There will be an epilogue, along with a "gift," but this chapter is the final showdown for this hunt. We both sincerely hope you've enjoyed the ride. We've had a blast writing this together.

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_"Men often make up in wrath what they want in reason." - William R. Alger_

_"…And the battles just begun  
Theres many lost but tell me who has won  
The trenches dug within our hearts  
And mothers, children, brothers, sisters torn apart!  
Sunday, Bloody Sunday…"_

_Sunday Bloody Sunday, U2_

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Sunday: Wrath

Forty-Seven.

That was the number of times Dean had been able to catch himself from plummeting over the edge of consciousness, drawn almost seamlessly between the thread of awareness he was dangling by, and letting go in order to lift the almost unbearable weight that had set into his eyes.

Twenty-three. The number of cars that had passed by outside since the last time his rest-thirsty eyes had taken in the time on the clock. It had been both too early and too late to care.

Twelve times a minute was how often Sam's chest rose and fell, giving life to lifeless silence with each breath that passed his slightly parted lips. Every once in a while, Sam's breathing would catch, a whimper or some fragmented speech would take its place, and Dean would tilt on the edge of his seat, ready to move, ready to stand in his brother's defense against whatever had crawled up from the dark to nest in his dreams.

He'd lost track of how many times he'd crossed the space between the bed and the chair to check on Sam and he was too tired to think about the hours that had passed. Hours that had crawled on, leaving him alone with his heavy thoughts, his aching body, and his abundance of unspoken fears.

His only motivation lay within his biggest fear at the moment—the fear that if he closed his eyes for just once, for too long, Sam would be gone.

He suddenly realized that it had been awhile since he'd checked the time. He knew watching the minutes flip over would only succeed in driving him mad. He could swear that the time had held its breath, or had decided to reverse out of spite. His solution was to just focus on Sam, to wait for other cues that time was sorting through the night minutes and not withholding day. He could tell that it was early morning now. He could hear the morning birds, and the traffic along the highway had picked up.

Through the gray of the room he could see Sam's brows pull into a tight line. His brother was rolled onto his side, muttering something softly. Dean had been listening to him do a similar thing all night. A few times he had to wake him, but every time Sam had looked up at him with knowing, clear eyes. He wasn't slipping in and out of fever, and Dean was grateful there appeared to be no infection. The nightmares weren't the product of fever, anyway. Dean knew first hand that whatever Sam was battling now was the aftereffect of wounds much deeper and far harder to heal.

Dean's stomach growled and he pulled his feet up into the chair, resting his knees against his chest. He ached for coffee, the extent of his addiction pulsing through his sleep-starved joints. He didn't want to leave Sam to satiate the craving for food and coffee, the basic fuel he needed to keep up his vigil for much longer. At this point it was hard for Dean to even remove his eyes from Sam, let alone gather the will power to leave his post. As long as the reason to fight was before him, the strength would follow…

Sammy had believed his entire life in things he couldn't see. Dean was a different story. He relied on what he could see. Sam breathing. Sam moving. Sam eatinglaughingjokinghuntingstudying…

Mending the wounds on Sam's back had brought Dean back to a place where his faith in something worth living for, worth dying for, had been shattered. Dean knew those memories weren't going to go away anytime soon. Watching Sam sleep, watching his movements as he breathed and his face contorted with the effects of his dreams, all of it helped ease the paralyzing fear that could sweep in at a moment's notice and drag him back to the darkest hour. He had never felt as helpless—as faithless—as that moment in the abandoned house in Cold Oak. Not even when they burned their father's body…

Their father…

It wasn't the first time that Dean's thoughts moved toward wondering about his father at the Hell Gate. It wasn't the first time either, that while alone with his memories Dean wondered if his father had known about the deal. The Crossroads Demon had known him. Had known a friggin' lot about him. She'd known about John, about the suffering he'd been in…

_Maybe Dad knew_…

Dean relived that moment in his mind; John's spirit wrestling with the yellow-eyed demon, giving Dean the chance he needed to end their twenty-three year struggle. The look in his father's eyes as they stood facing one another, the pride… His eyes had spoken so much, and Dean remembered standing there unable to unravel the messages fast enough. It was a moment that would forever haunt him. John's fight was done, and Dean's was just beginning…

Dean turned his head, breaking the memory he'd fallen into, pulling away from the imagined but still intense gaze of his father's eyes. He heard Sam stir again, more memories of his own tormenting him behind closed lids. Dean wanted to wake him and tell him to look at their father with him…  
_  
See? That…right there… is something to believe in, _Dean thought as he saw Sam's brows crease deeper while he fought a battle that Dean couldn't fight with him. _Dad's will—the friggin' superhuman strength it took him to climb out of Hell and save us…save me. If you can't believe in angels anymore, believe in that. Believe in him. Believe in me. _

Dean shifted in his chair, the lack of sleep and desperation to make sense of everything that had happened was tugging painfully at his eyes, making them well up, glass over, threaten to spill. God he hated this… hated waiting for Heaven to finally step in, and for Hell to collect…

Screw them both.  
_  
I wouldn't leave you if I had a choice, Sammy. I just couldn't let you die. I tried so damn hard to protect you, all of my life, and when it really mattered, when you really needed me…I wasn't there. So, I had to make it right…and I'll make this right, so help me if it means I have to climb out of Hell myself…_

The gray of the room was getting warmer, lighter. One more day…  
_  
Believe in me… _

Dean pressed against his eyes with his fingertips, fighting back the tired twinge with pressure. When he dropped his hand back into his lap, he saw Sam's eyes were open, staring right at him with un-rested hazel irises. Dean wondered for a moment if he'd been inadvertently speaking out loud. It wouldn't have surprised him with how tired he was now. Holding conversations with himself probably wasn't the worst thing that could happen to someone who abused their body the way he did.

"What time is it?" Sam asked, his voice gravelly, carrying the same weight it had the night before.

The way Sam's eyes fell on him, Dean knew the kid had been hoping it had all been a bad dream, that he'd wake up somewhere else; a place where the lines of good and evil hadn't been so brutally and unforgivably blurred.

Dean returned Sam's question with a blank stare. He suddenly realized after a few beats of silence that Sam was staring back, eyes carrying concern. Dean shook his head, taking in a deeper breath, hoping that would revive his limbs a little and shake the encased-in-concrete feeling that had enveloped him. He looked at his watch. 5 a.m. This was starting to be a habit.

"Five," Dean answered, rubbing at the scruff around his mouth.

"This is starting to become a habit," Sam groaned.

Dean laughed a little at that. "Yeah…"

"Did you sleep?" Sam asked, and Dean heard the underlying _I know you didn't, so don't lie to me_, as clear as the _make this better, Dean_, that had come with Sam's waking words.

"I wasn't tired."

"Liar."

Dean shrugged a heavy shoulder, finding it easier to stay awake now that Sam was awake with him. His voice, his presence… all provided Dean with someone other than doubt and silence, which had been the only ones carrying the conversation until now.

"That's three nights in a row now…"

"Hey, _neither_ of us slept very much the night before."

Dean pushed to his feet, surprised when his legs held his weight without wavering. He grabbed a glass of water from the table that he'd filled for Sam the night before. Two Tylenol lay beside it. He'd wanted to be prepared for the fever that thankfully never came. There was no doubt in his mind that Sam would want these for the pain before he moved much further from the bed.

Sam sat up, his pain-accompanied groans increasing as each bone realigned and his frame pulled against the wounds in his back. He took his time and Dean waited until he was sitting up completely to hand him the medicine and water. Sam's eyes lifted to his gratefully.

Sam threw them into the back of his throat, following with the water chaser before sagging to the side and leaning his body against the wall.

"We have one more to figure out," he breathed in a bone-weary, ancient voice that took Dean a while to register as his brother's.

Dean returned to his chair, settling into it slowly, allowing each achy muscle and bone to sort itself out. His head pounded a little with the exertion of standing and moving, and he could feel the blood pump behind his eyes, and pulse into his wound. He tilted his head a little to watch Sam. His brother was staring ahead, and Dean knew it wasn't at the wallpaper. Dean had been doing something similar all night. Reliving the encounter, trying to sort out the _why's_ and the _what if's_.

Their first encounter with an angel hadn't exactly been what Dean had imagined. When he was younger, he had the storybook version of angel's in his mind. Nothing that even came close to Bob. Bob made him wish that they really were more like the pictures he'd seen, or like Roma Downey and John Travolta, hell the angel from Chuck Heston's _Ten Commandments_ or _Raiders of the Lost Arc_ would have been nice.

"Don't they…you know… rest on Sunday?" Dean asked.

He was relieved to see Sam's eyes soften, the corner of his mouth tick up. "I think it was just that one time. You know, with the whole making the world thing."

"Right, that," Dean replied, rubbing at the back of his head where the muscles had become tender. "Too bad… not really looking forward to running all of Carlos Montoya's priors."

Sam grunted in agreement, standing with some aid from the night stand and the wall. His face creased with the strain that motion put on his back and Dean waited, poised again at the edge of his chair to see if he'd need help.

"I need to clean up, then we can start."

Sam moved away from the wall and Dean slid back into the chair, waiting for Sam's back to turn to him before he surrendered to the weariness that had set in all over his body. He rubbed again at his face, unaware just how much the shadows of exhaustion were evident even in the dark. He didn't realize that Sam could see the way he'd melted back against the chair, the dark lines, the bruised skin beneath his eyes, all reflected in the glass before his brother.

Sam paused, staring at Dean's gray reflection in the bathroom mirror. Muted light from the room illuminated the narrow space between where he stood and where he was heading; he could see shadows gathering around his brother's inverted image. It was almost as if Dean were fading before his eyes. He watched Dean blink, slow, as though he were trying to remember if he were supposed to keep his eyes open or closed, then lift his gaze to meet Sam's in the mirror.

"What?" Dean asked, his voice rough.

Sam shook his head in reply, silently continuing on into the bathroom. He closed the door softly behind him, flicking the switch to his left and keeping his eyes down as the fluorescent bulb flickered and hummed, snapping to life with a staccato burst of light. He could see pills strewn on the floor and an empty bottle lying in the base of the sink. Thinking back to the wound on Dean's head, Sam knew this had been his brother's attempt to medicate. He wondered what had stopped Dean from taking the pills, or at least cleaning them up—then felt the hot, tight pull of the stitches down his back.

_Oh_…

He knew his brother. He knew the rhythm of Dean's life, the beat he measured himself by. Dean would have made sure Sam was okay before taking care of his own wounds. Sam felt a sharp pain in his heart knowing that if he couldn't do something to change the seemingly inevitable course of Dean's life, that rhythm that he'd grown up with, grown to depend on, would be gone. Sam would have no one to turn to when darkness threatened.

Sam eyed the bathtub with trepidation. Showering, as welcome as it would be to clean the dirt and sweat from his body, was not a good idea with the shape his back was in.

_One deal with one demon is going to take you away from me..._

Dean had left one of the duffels on the countertop last night. Sam's own was zipped closed, setting on the floor; Dean's opened to reveal the remnants of the first aid kit. Sam moved in a slow, stiff gait toward the sink, using his index finger to pull the canvas side of the bag toward him and peered into Dean's duffel. T-shirts were balled up and tangled with socks and boxers. Jeans scrambled with bullets for their own corner. John's journal rested on the top of Dean's silver flask.

Dean's scent wafted up from the cotton and denim and nearly drove Sam to his knees—car oil and sweat, leather and gunpowder, and a lingering scent of Old Spice from a bottle long empty. Sam ticked his head to the side, pulling his bottom lip in, catching it with his teeth. The sparse reminders of Dean's life contained in the duffel blurred; Sam felt his legs tremble and he sank slowly down to the closed lid of the toilet.

Memories of moments with his brother slammed into him and bowed his neck with their weight. Sam gripped the edge of the counter, trying to slow them down, trying to grab one, to hold it tight, but it was trying to catch smoke. Twenty-four years hadn't been long enough—he'd had so little time to know his brother. And he squandered so many moments, unknowingly.

_It's not fair…_

Rubbing shaking fingers over his burning eyes, Sam thought of the weary lines flanking Dean's drawn face. He had so little time left with his brother as it was, and now an angel with a wing bent out of shape was trying to take it from him.

_Lucifer's minions will come for Dean. They'll drag him down in to the pit, burn him alive, tear him apart and rip open his soul for eternity, Sam. There is nothing you can do. No amount of praying is going to stop that._

_I believed,_ Sam thought miserably. _I believed and I was wrong... But... Dean shouldn't have to pay anymore. Not because I was wrong..._

Using the countertop as support he pushed himself straight, wincing as the slices in his back crinkled, the skin reacting to the motion, the stitches resisting the pull. He gritted his teeth against the pain, closing his eyes.

Dean had paid his price in blood long ago. He'd nearly bled out in the cabin in Missouri. He'd escaped a reaper twice. He'd sacrificed his childhood, his future, his happiness for one purpose: to keep Sam safe. And now he was paying Sam's price with his soul.

Rubbing his palms roughly into the hollow of his eyes, Sam bit back a growl. He was going to stop this one—this last sin. This last death. He was going to _end_ it. Today. He was going to end it for Dean. And if they were alone in this fight, then so be it.

_Hell, we've been alone in pretty much every fight, according to Bob, and we've come out more or less intact…_

"Sammy? You fall asleep in there?"

Dean's sudden voice on the other side of the door caused Sam to jump, then hiss when the movement snapped across his back.

"Gimme a minute," he called back.

"You okay?"

"Fine," Sam pushed himself to his feet. "Be out in a minute."

Sam removed the pill bottle from the sink basin, then scooped out the wayward meds, tipping them back into the bottle. He turned on the faucet, cupping his hand under the cool flow, then tipped some water into his suddenly parched mouth. Swallowing, he ran his wet hand over his gritty face, then turned slightly, regarding the dark lines of stitches flanked by slightly puffy, red skin framing the purple scar that ran along his spine.

Evidence of his brother's sacrifice.

_I won't let them get your soul, Dean,_ he promised silently, meeting his own red-rimmed eyes in the mirror. _I gotta save you… I __**will**__ save you._

Slowly pulling his dusty jeans off, Sam changed to a clean pair, grabbing one of the rags from the shelf, wetting it, and running the white cloth over his face, neck, and chest until it came away gray with dirt. Head spinning, he bit back a groan as he lifted his arms, the skin and muscle in his back screaming, and pulled a T-shirt over his head, then grabbed a long-sleeved shirt. Leaning against the sink for a moment to still the wave of vertigo that rocked him, Sam pulled in a breath, then, shirt gripped in his hand, turned to exit the bathroom.

As he opened the door, his gaze hit his brother's figure, slumped in the same chair he'd been sitting in earlier, eyes closed, chin resting on his chest, perfectly still. A stab of panic shot through Sam causing him to gasp. Without pausing for rational thought, he crossed the room, grabbing Dean's shoulder.

"Jesus_Christ!"_ Dean jumped, his head shooting up, eyes blinking wide. "Dude, what the hell—"

"Sorry!" Sam yelped, stepping back, relief making him dizzy. "Sorry, I didn't realize you were asleep."

"Wasn't asleep," Dean grumbled, grinding his eye with the palm of his hand. "Just resting my eyes."

Sam sank down to the bed, using his free hand to guide him. He felt weak and shaky, his body detached from reality, from the moment, retreating into a safe place where he couldn't abuse it anymore.

"Sleep isn't a weakness, Dean."

Dean lifted a brow. "Yeah, well... someone's gotta what over your skinny ass."

"My ass is not skinny," Sam shot back, ignoring the instant reply of _for how long _that panged through him. "I happen to have a very nice ass."

"Says who?" Dean smirked.

"Lotsa people," Sam shrugged.

Dean rubbed his face again; Sam wondered if he were hoping that repetitive action would return to him what lack of sleep had taken away. "Dude, you got it all wrong…" Dean stood, wavering slightly. "_You're _the brains,_ I'm_ the bod."

Sam watched Dean reach out for the back of the chair to steady himself, his eyes traveling to his brother's bandaged hand. This hunt had not been easy on either of them, but Dean would never allow himself down time. As long as he could still physically stand without assistance, Sam knew his brother would keep going. And Sam could do no less.

"Well, at least one of those is still intact," Sam muttered.

"You ain't wrong, brother," Dean sighed, starting to turn toward the bathroom.

The vibration of Sam's phone against the table caught them both by surprise. Dean shot a look over his shoulder, meeting Sam's eyes.

"You think?" Dean tilted his head in question.

Sam took a breath. "Only one way to find out."

Creaking to his feet, Sam crossed to the table, picked up the phone and looked at the display. Ice settled in his gut and he looked at Dean, needing the balance of his brother's eyes.

"I'm impressed," Bob's voice held a lilt of amusement, as if he'd found a playmate. "You boys are very smart to have found Carlos as quickly as you did…"

"Not quick enough," Sam muttered. "Won't happen again."

"Oh, seventh time's the charm, is that it, Samuel?"

Sam remained silent, watching Dean seethe five feet away from him.

"Well, since you and your brother are so smart… I've decided to give you a chance to change the outcome of this lesson…"

Sam frowned. He opened his mouth to retort, but Bob continued.

"Human beings have one redeeming quality, Sam… if you can figure out what that is, you might have a chance to save the last one."

The line cut off and left Sam listening to a dial tone, his mouth agape.

"What?" Dean demanded.

Sam blinked at his phone.

"Sam!" Dean barked, causing Sam to jump. "What did he say?"

"Uh… he said that we have one redeeming quality, and if we could figure out what that is, we could save the last one."

Taking a breath, Dean sat heavily on the edge of the bed. "Son of a bitch," he muttered, shaking his head. "Another damn clue." He lifted his brows into inverted V's, twisting his lips into a rueful grin. "I miss the good old days when all we had to do was salt and burn…"

Sam simply nodded, thinking. Ideas, possibilities, chances bounced around in his head like a pinball reverberating against breakers.

"What would a bitter, fallen angel consider a redeeming quality?" Dean mused, voicing Sam's thoughts. His eyes were on the floor between his bare feet, his shoulders slumped, his bandaged hand resting in its mate.

Sam kept his eyes on Dean, filled with a sudden fierce emotion, an instinct to protect, to rebel, to rail against the evil that threatened to consume the only family he had left. He felt his lips twitch, his chin trembling, his eyes burning. Swallowing hard, Sam glanced away, refusing to cry.

_How could you do that?_

_Don't you get mad at me… don't you do it. I had to. I had to look out for you. That's my job._

Sam curled his fingers into loose fists, gripping the phone in one hand, his shirt in the other, listening to the quiet of the room, the unnatural stillness of his brother as Dean searched for an answer to the question that could get them out of this hunt. That could _end_ this hunt.

_How could you do this to me, _Sam thought, his eyes on the angry red skin on his brother's leg that peeked out from above the white gauze bandage. _You bastard, Dean… you save me just to leave me?_

Dean dropped his head, pulling in a deep breath, the slid his eyes over to Sam. "I got nothin', man."

_If I didn't need you so much... hell, if I didn't love you so damn much... I might hate you right now,_ Sam thought, swallowing tears. Meeting Dean's weary eyes, Sam suddenly knew.

_Oh my God..._

Realization burst upon him like a light in the darkness. He felt a calm ease across his chest, steady the beat of his heart, relaxing the tight pull of his back as knowledge grabbed hold, took root, and grew.

"Sammy?" Dean frowned at him.

"Why do you think the angel picked Mercy, Dean?"

Pushing his lips out, Dean lifted a shoulder. "Town's full of secrets… seedy underbelly… easy prey… where you goin' with this, Sam?"

Sam shifted his weight. "Why do you think he picked a town called _Mercy_?"

Dean stared at him a moment and Sam watched the light gather in his brother's eyes. "No way…" Dean pulled his head back in disbelief.

"What makes us different from the angels?" Sam posed.

Dean pressed his hands to the bed, pushing himself up with an audible groan. "They got… wings and absolute power," he yawned, rolling his neck and turning toward the bathroom once more. "We got… classic cars and Zeppelin."

"Be serious, man."

Dean sighed, leaning against the doorway. "I don't know, Sam. Other than Mom sayin' they protected me… watched over me… I never really gave angels much thought."

Sam looked down. _Maybe it's time I save your ass for a change…_ "We can forgive," he said softly. "We can _show_ mercy..."

"What, and angel's can't?" Dean scoffed, his voice fading as he stepped from the carpeted motel room into the tiled bathroom.

"I don't know for sure, but… something Bob said last night… about how he protected us, defended us… and all we do is fail…"

Dean turned around. "And God loves us more…"

Sam nodded. "I mean… angels can't be wronged, can they? You have to have something to forgive in the first place in order to be capable of the act..."

Dean rubbed his face again. "This is another coffee conversation," he muttered.

"You know," Sam lifted an eyebrow. "If you slept once in awhile you wouldn't need so much coffee."

Dean matched his lifted eyebrow, not bothering to answer. With a quick shake of his head, he turned and closed the bathroom door behind him. Soon, Sam heard the rush of the shower and a low hum of a melody as Dean ignored the signals his battered body was giving him, threatening to shut down if he pushed it much further.

His long sleeved shirt still gripped in his hand, Sam sat down at the small table, setting his phone down and flipping his laptop open, booting it up. Dean was swift in the shower. By the time Sam had pulled up Safari's search page, Dean had exited the bathroom in a cloud of steam, wrapped in a white hotel towel, clutching his duffel which he dropped onto the unmade bed.

"What are you looking for?" Dean asked, pulling clean clothes from the tangle inside his bag.

"Cemeteries," Sam replied.

"Not churches?" Dean asked, his voice muffled by the cotton of his T-shirt as he pulled it over his head.

Sam looked up. "Why churches?"

Blinking in surprise, Dean shifted his jeans up on his hips, buttoning the fly with swift, sure fingers. "Isn't that where people go for forgiveness?"

Tilting his head slightly, Sam glanced out of the slit through the curtain-covered window. "Well, yeah, but…" he looked back over at Dean, thinking, "cemeteries are where people go to forgive."

Dean let his brother's words wash over him, sinking into the cracks that this hunt had created in his protective walls. Pulling his lower lip into his mouth, he turned, reaching into his bag for his gun, setting it next to the duffel on the bed, scattered memories of various cemeteries and graves he'd visited—and according to various law enforcement officials, desecrated—since he first started hunting flitted through his mind. Two stood out vividly: his mother's and his father's.

He pulled his Bowie out, laying it next to his gun, then began searching through the hastily-packed bag for his ammo. He hadn't been able to visit his mother's grave—not out of a lack of forgiveness, but out of a need for distance. Seeing a marker made it real, made her gone forever, made her not even alive inside of him. Which was why he'd been able to stand at John's grave, why he'd been able to speak to his father through the veil of protection that a false death afforded him: because he'd known even then that it hadn't been real.

"Ah-ha," Sam suddenly exclaimed.

"What?" Dean looked over at him, Sam's triumphant expression a curious pull. He stepped over to the table, peering over Sam's shoulder at the computer screen, reading the words there. "Who the hell is Patience Wild?"

Sam sat back, glancing over his shoulder at Dean. "Patience is the virtue for Wrath… the only sin that's left. She's the only person with that name in the Mercy cemetery."

"Huh," Dean bounced his head once.

"And get this," Sam leaned forward once more, tapping the mouse pad to scroll down. "She's buried in a mausoleum. No digging..."

Dean straightened. "Well, guess that settles it," he said, crossing back to his duffel. "We're going back to Mercy."

Sam frowned at him, watching as he dug into the bag, set John's journal aside, and retrieved two large, silver flasks. Dean opened one, sniffed the contents, frowned, then took a quick sip.

"Dude… what the hell?" Sam exclaimed at Dean's grimace of distaste.

"Gah—who knew whiskey could skunk so bad…"

"What are you doing?" Sam shook his head. Sometimes he _really_ didn't understand his brother.

Dean dumped the contents of the flask into the bathroom sink and shot a look over his shoulder. "We're making a stop before we visit Patience."

"A stop?" Sam asked as Dean rattled the second flask with a satisfied nod.

Dean held up an empty flask with a grin. "Feel the need to confess a few things."

Sam echoed his brother's smile.

www

Dean parked the Impala outside of Mercy's _Memorial Gardens_. The tall, wrought-iron gates stood open in lazy vigil of the neatly kept grounds that were covered with the late morning sun. The scene felt off before he even stepped from the car. The serene picture of light pouring over white tombstones through the surrounding trees didn't match the foreboding that was building within. Maybe if it were night… maybe if the place was in more disarray… maybe then his mind could match up what he was seeing with what he was feeling. Over the course of the week, Dean had come to realize that this was what Mercy had to offer: the comfortable masking the ugly.

They'd passed the church on the other side of the grounds at a slow crawl while looking for the mausoleums. The Sunday morning attendants didn't notice two guys in a black Chevy surveying the graveyard. They were too busy greeting one another with Sunday morning smiles, holding Sunday morning conversations… all of which had always seemed as fake to Dean as the serenity of the graveyard he stood in front of now.

There were only a handful of people that Dean had admired for the genuine nature of their faith: Pastor Jim, Layla… Sam.

As they'd passed the church, Dean had watched his brother's eyes follow the people up the front steps, then dart back to his knees. He saw the way Sam's shoulders sagged as they drove by. It reminded Dean of the way Sam would look out a window when they were younger, waiting for their father, who was already two days later than he'd promised coming back from a hunt.

Dean opened the trunk and tossed Sam a flask of holy water before stuffing one in his own jacket. Sam eyed his for a moment, shaking his head.

"So, what, they just gave you some?" he asked.

Pockets full of rock salt shells and holy water—their only known weapon against Bob the homicidal angel—Dean slammed the trunk shut and started through the gates. Sam followed, shotgun resting against his shoulder, rolling the flask over in his hands.

"There was no one around. Helped myself," Dean explained. "But… I didn't get away without a few awkward moments between myself and Father Sterling."

"Who's Father Sterling?"

Dean shrugged. "Guess he's the new Father Simons. He caught me at the door, flask in hand."

"Smooth, Dean. You run out of pockets?"

Dean lifted a brow. "Dude, it's called making a getaway. Anyway, I'm scheduled for confession next week…Oh, and I have AA on Wednesday."

Sam smiled a little at that as they plodded through the grave rows.

"I would have come in…" Sam started.

"I know," Dean interrupted, hoping that Sam understood that he didn't need any explanation. The foundation of a part of who Sam was had been shaken, and Dean could see that he was stepping back in case it fell apart completely.

They continued their walk in silence, the only sound crossing the stillness was the church bells in the distance and the crunch of sun-seared patches of grass beneath their feet. That was until Sam sighed, and Dean subconsciously braced himself.

"You ever think about Mom's grave?"

Dean almost paused, his steps slowing as he was taken by Sam's question. He'd just been thinking about her; about how he'd been unable to stand close to her grave. Sometimes it scared him how easily Sam could resonate on the same frequency as him in a moment—how Sam could call him out.

"What do you mean?" Dean asked, eyes lifting to Patience Wild's crypt in the distance. Suddenly it seemed miles away.

Sam kept pace with him, even when his movements became more brisk.

"You told me about how you went to Dad's grave, when you were trapped by the Djinn, but you didn't want to get close to Mom's back in Lawrence."

Dean shrugged, shifting the weight of the shotgun. "I needed Dad…" He admitted. "It's not like I didn't need Mom, it was just…different. Dad had always been my…my touchstone I guess."

Dean could feel Sam's gaze, knew that if he looked over he'd see the surprise etched on his brother's face, but he kept his eyes on the mausoleum up ahead.

"Dad and I never really talked," Dean continued. "I mean, sure we talked, y'know, 'bout hunts, you and your grades, the car, the guns… We would make sure we got from point A to point B, destroying evil sons of bitches and surviving odds… but we never really talked about how it felt to make that trip, y'know? To live through all that. But… until I went and got you at Stanford… Dad was pretty much all I had."

"I'm sorry," Sam whispered.

Dean shoved him lightly with his elbow, glancing down at the path they followed. "Don't be. You were busy growing up, man. It wasn't your responsibility. I wanted to keep you a kid for as long as possible."

"Yeah, but," Sam protested, "I talked to you… I talked to you all the time back then, and I guess I… just never stopped to think that you weren't talking back."

Dean lifted his shoulder, "I didn't need it as bad… Or at least I thought I didn't. It wasn't until I got you back that I realized how much I needed… this." Dean bounced a loose hand in the air between them. "You calling me out, dragging me out. Kicking and screaming sometimes, 'cause chick-flick moments like this really don't bode well for my reputation," he laughed lightly, shaking his head, then sobered. They walked a few beats in silence. "I didn't realize that I needed… you know… you."

"Aw." Dean heard the smile in Sam's voice, masking the real emotion crowded in his brother's throat.

"Shut-up," Dean shook his head, his lips cornering in a self-conscious grin.

Sam laughed. "Even with all the shit we've been through? And there's been a lot of shit…"

"Amen, brother. Hunts gone wrong—"

"Practical jokes—"

"Reapers—"

"Car wrecks—"

"Clowns—"

"You just had to bring that up didn't you?"

"Demon's upon demons—"

Sam slid his eyes over, "Is that stacked on top of each other, or end to end?"

Dean laughed, eyes crinkling around the edges.

They stopped. They'd made it to their destination and became quiet again, standing in the shadow of one of the largest mausoleums either of them had ever seen. They took in the large stone exterior and the heavy doors at the top of marble stairs blocking their view to the inside. It commanded a moment of awe and built upon the dread that had already settled at the base of both of their stomachs.

Dean was the first to move again, foot on the first step when Sam grabbed his arm. Dean looked back at him, thinking at first that his brother was trying to warn him, but Sam's eyes weren't looking past him at the crypt, they were reaching for him.

"I always needed you, Dean."

Dean stared at him a moment, letting those words spill over him and fill him. He'd needed to hear that. Probably more than Sam would ever understand. He rolled his eyes and turned to continue up the steps, breaking the moment.

"You pick the worst times to turn into a girl," he muttered.

Sam simply followed him, smiling.

They reached the door and Dean glanced back at Sam and shrugged. These things were almost always locked, but he tried it anyway. The door swung open with little effort and a part of Dean wished he'd had to pick the lock. It was too _come on in_ for his liking.

The inside was massive. Stained glass windows surrounded the main floor and sunlight streaming down through pictorials of Jesus' life and death illuminated the lower level in a kaleidoscope of warm colors.

Dean was the first in, heading down more stone steps in front of Sam, his trained eyes sweeping the room. Sam followed with his shotgun ready, taking slow, calculated steps.

The silence inside the cavernous stone structure was suffocating. Gone were the easy sounds of the leaf-laden branches brushing against each other in the trees scattered around the cemetery. Gone was the din of muted church bells. Gone, even, the scattered chirps of mockingbirds as they circled the resting souls below.

Pausing at the base of the stairs, Dean hesitated to breathe, uncertain if that action alone would shatter the apprehensive stillness that surrounded them. Sam's boot scuffed the stone step behind him and Dean glanced quickly over his shoulder at his brother's tense face.

_I always needed you, Dean… One deal with one demon is going to take you away from me…_

Dean dared to pull in the air his body was suddenly desperate for, feeling oddly like it may be his last as he kept his eyes on Sam's profile, watching Sam search the room. He saw Sam's chin tip minutely up, the skin around his eyes tightening imperceptibly. Only years of watching Sam for any sign of pain, of need, of want offered Dean the ability to read these subtle indications that Sam had found what they were looking for.

"There," Sam whispered, his gaze intent on something across the room.

Following Sam's eye-line, Dean turned to see a stone sarcophagus partially hidden in the shadows tossed about the room from the stained-glass windows. Stepping forward, Sam fell in behind him as they approached Patience's coffin. The sides were chiseled stone, images that he assumed had meant something to Patience during her life. Atop the stone surface, a part of a poem was etched.

"Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there, I do not sleep…" Dean read softly. "Okay. Random."

"Lots of people believe that death isn't the end, Dean," Sam said, his voice hushed in the quiet of the room.

Dean lifted an eyebrow, glancing sideways at his brother. "Yeah? Well, it's not exactly the beginning, either."

Sam shrugged. "Maybe it's just… more of the same."

Dean shifted, turning to face Sam. "Sam—"

"Maybe we were wrong," Sam interrupted, looking around the empty room. "Maybe it was supposed to be a church. Maybe it wasn't forgiveness..."

Dean frowned. "This isn't like you, man."

Sam settled his eyes on Dean's. "Huh?"

"You don't… second guess," Dean shifted the shotgun so that he could better grip the barrel with his bandaged hand.

Sam looked back toward Patience's coffin. "Yeah, well… things change."

Dean started to shake his head when he noticed a shadow shifting across the smooth planes of Sam's face. A shadow that looked like… a wing.

With an abbreviated gasp of realization, Dean shot his eyes to the entrance, bringing the shotgun to point position as he turned. Bob stood at the top step, wings spreading, blocking the light that filtered in through the open doorway. Dean's finger flexed on the trigger but before he could fire, Bob tilted his head gently to the side, a slight frown turning down the edges of his lips as amusement crinkled the corners of his blue eyes. The tranquility of the angel's expression gave Dean pause, and was his undoing.

He had one second to register the shock on Sam's face, then was lifted into the air and flung violently across the room, his barely-healed back slamming against the unforgiving stone with brutal impact. Air rushed from his lungs, and Dean felt pain radiate through his chest and neck, rattling his teeth with its force.

"No!" Sam bellowed, and surged forward.

Instinctively, Dean lifted the shotgun he'd managed to somehow maintain in his grip. In one fluid motion, Bob glided down the steps and faced Dean, his head squaring up on his shoulders, his lips sliding up into a smile. With a brief flick of his fingers, Bob ripped the shotgun from Dean's hand, bending the barrel in half before Dean's shocked eyes.

"Son of a bitch," Dean gasped ineffectually. Tightening the muscles in his stomach, chest, shoulders, he tried to pull himself away from the wall. "Son of a _bitch_!" he yelled when he was unable to do more than tilt his head. He'd felt this before. Too many times. He was trapped, and Sam was vulnerable. _Not again… notagainnotagainnotagain…_

"Dean!" Sam raised his shotgun, keeping it on Bob and heading for Dean's pinned body.

As Dean watched, Sam seemed to slam against air, stumbling back and blinking as though he'd run into a brick wall. Bob chuckled, watching as Sam raised a tentative hand, feeling along the barrier that kept him from his brother. Dean had a wild thought that Sam looked a bit like a killer mime before he turned his back to Dean and leveled the shotgun on Bob once more.

"Where is he?" Sam demanded, his voice a low, dangerous growl. Dean felt a shiver build around his heart at that sound. Sam didn't sound like Sammy… he didn't sound like his little brother. He sounded like a killer.

Bob's wings folded, the blackened, mangled one shaking a bit as it retracted against the angel's back. The loose-fitting shirt ruffled a bit as the feathered appendages disappeared from view, and Bob crossed his arms, his smile turning into a satisfied smirk.

"Who?" he asked.

Sam cocked the shotgun. "Your seventh victim, you evil bastard. Where is Wrath?!"

"You think I'm just going to tell you?"

"Yes," Sam asserted, firing one barrel of rock salt just over Bob's shoulder.

With a muffled screech that sounded like a rabbit caught in a hunter's snare, Bob flinched, ducking his head into his shoulder. He brought his head back up quickly when Sam cocked the second barrel and Dean saw a deadly light emanate from the angel's large eyes. He tried once more to pull away from the wall, panting with the effort. His bruised back whimpered in protest.

"Samuel," Bob said, unnerving them both by chuckling once more. "You did figure out my little riddle, I'll give you that… but you just don't get it, do you?"

"I'm done with riddles, you sick fuck," Sam growled. "Tell. Us. Where. He. Is."

Folding his lips together in a mock frown, Bob tilted his head, looking over at Dean. In that moment, Dean felt a cold dread in his gut that he'd not felt since waking in the hospital in Missouri when he should never have woken up at all. His body began to tremble from the inside out.

_Oh, God… Sammy…_

Dean opened his mouth to warn his brother, to tell him what he'd suddenly seen written on Bob's face, echoing from Bob's eyes, but a blinding pain stole his breath, silencing him. He felt a hot slash at the back of his head, and arched his neck against the onslaught of sensation, pressing his head against the wall with an audible groan.

Dean clenched his teeth, knowing Sam heard him, knowing he was worrying Sam, trying to keep the pain locked inside, trying to understand why he suddenly felt wetness running down the back of his neck when he was shocked again by the stinging, familiar pain of cuts on the side of his face that had been healing from Andre's Hail Mary through the wall of the warehouse. His cheek and forehead opened up, blood spilling from these old wounds as though a week hadn't passed.

"Aw, damn…" Dean breathed, feeling his jaw tremble as he worked to brace against the pain. _What the hell is happening to me…_

Sam stepped toward him, his hand up against the invisible barrier. "Dean?"

_Jesus, Sammy… don't… don't listen to him…_ It took Dean a full minute and the heavy impact of his brother's worried eyes to realize that he hadn't spoken aloud.

"You see," Bob said conversationally, uncrossing his arms, and rubbing his left hand with his right, the motion looking disturbingly like John Winchester habit of doing the same thing while thinking. "I'd planned this so perfectly. I had someone all picked out… the perfect ending to this saga. I would put your George Lucas to shame."

Bob turned from the brother's and began to walk toward Patience Wild's stone coffin. Sam tracked his motion with his body, shooting an incredulous look over his shoulder to Dean at Bob's words. Dean swallowed, wanting desperately to wipe the blood from his eyes.

"Sam…" he whispered. Bob cut him off.

"You see," Bob continued, running a slim, graceful finger along the edge of the chiseled stone. "Carlos Montoya's wife? Was Michael Reese's sister. She didn't know what her husband had done to her brother. And when she found out… well, her fury would have been beautiful. But then," Bob glanced over at Dean, his eyes cold. "I met you, Dean. Standing outside of that motel room. The weight of the world on your shoulders."

Sam shifted confused eyes between Bob and Dean.

"Sam!" Dean hissed.

"Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there, I did not die," Bob read, his voice an eerie sing-song. "Sound familiar, Dean? Guess what's dead didn't stay dead after all, did it?"

"Get to the point, why don't you?" Sam snarled, the shotgun flush against his shoulder, his eye on the sight, aimed at Bob.

Bob turned, resting his backside against the stone, crossing his arms with a soft laugh. "Oh, Sam," he shook his head. "I'm already there. I mean, don't you see? Dean is perfect. _Perfect_. He's a scoundrel, a rebel. His life is practically a homage to the Seven Deadly Sins. He is the reason the Ten Commandments were written!"

Sam lowered the shotgun slowly, looking at his bleeding brother pinned to the wall. "What…"

"He is a walking testament to pain. Do you know how fantastic it would be to turn that pain to rage? How_easy_?"

"Sam… no…" Dean whispered, trying to force something—anything—past his frozen lips, but his body refused to cooperate. Sam's doubt and confusion dug into him deeper than the wound at the back of his head, the cuts on his face. The cracks on Sam's soul bled more freely and Dean felt Sam waver._Don't listen to him, Sammy…_ Bob stepped forward at Dean's whispered plea and lowered his chin, his eyes pin-pricks of light.

Dean felt his forehead split open, hairline to eyebrow, and he cried out in helpless pain. _Oh, you sonuvabitch…_ Blood ran across the bridge of his nose, tracking down the opposite side of his face as it had when he'd hit the tombstone in the graveyard in Wyoming.

"You leave him alone, you bastard," Dean panted, trying to focus on the middle image of Bob as the world swam around him. If it weren't for the invisible force holding him against the wall, he would have been in a pile on the floor, and glad for it. "Sam…"

"Dean!"

Dean thought he heard Sam's finger flex on the trigger of the shotgun seconds before Bob flung his hand casually behind him and sent the gun flying from Sam's grasp.

"But then… I looked closer," Bob stepped forward, watching Dean bleed. "Your soul has already been touched by darkness, Dean. You have already given it up. You could never feel a rage as deep or as pure as the desperate wrath that drove you to that crossroads… could you?" Bob tilted his head, his eyes glittering in the dim light of the mausoleum. "But... I know someone who could..."

"F-fuck you," Dean panted, his vision fading at the edges. He swallowed the burning bile that rose to the base of his throat. He felt the splintered cuts on his hand flex open, felt the hot, sticky wetness of blood fill his palm and drip from his fingertips.

As if parting a wave of water, Bob leaned through the invisible barrier until his face was inches from Dean. In a whisper he said, "I'm going to take him, Dean. I'm going to take him from you while you watch. I'm going to have my way with him and you will have given your soul to save nothing."

"You bastard!" Dean tried to growl, hating himself as he heard the weakness in his voice.

He was burning and shaking from a bone-deep cold at the same time. His terror for Sam surpassed the mind-numbing pain reverberating through his head. He could taste the copper of his own blood as it seeped into the corners of his mouth and watched as Bob pulled his face back through the barrier.

Sam shot desperate eyes to him and Dean tried to warn him silently, praying the communication that worked for them in battle didn't fail him now. Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out one of the flasks of holy water. Dean looked back to Bob, his heart in his throat at the sight of the knowing smile twisting the angel's features from beauty to bitterness.

The pain that blossomed in Dean's head at that look blinded him and for a moment all he saw was white. White and heat and Sam's eyes.

"Sam…" he breathed.

"What are you doing to him?!" Sam bellowed.

Bob smiled, looking at Dean who was hanging like a gory rag doll against the wall. At the sight, Bob's face took on an expression bordering affection, like a child regarding an animal with a broken leg. It turned Sam's stomach.

"I'm simply reminding him of his past transgressions, Samuel." Bob's voice was soft, almost gentle. "Reminding him of his failures through the perfection that is agony. The purity of pain. All of his old wounds, every one, will be revealed to him until Dean knows the truth."

Sam heard his brother struggle against another wave of pain, saw him rear back against the wall, gasping. Sam's eyes flicked back to Bob, full of fire.

"The _truth_? What fucking sense of truth could you possibly have?" he spat.

Bob's smile pulled tight against his perfect teeth. "The truth you both so badly want to overcome," he replied. "The truth that there is no Heaven, only Hell for Dean."

Sam's face was burning, the rest of him shaking under the volatile storm of emotions that had been building for days, weeks. The angel's mockery combined with the sight of Dean writhing, bleeding—the thought that Dean's wounds, blood he'd spilled to protect others, to protect their family, to protect him, were being called _reminders of his transgressions and failures_—all of it fueled the heating of his blood, the flooding of his heart with ire, until he didn't care what the cost of tearing Bob apart would be. All he knew was that his hands ached to be wrapped around the angel's lying throat, to still his deriding lips.

Sam tried again to pass the barrier that kept him away from Dean, but before he could take the first step, Dean's face went tight with pain, the muscles and veins in his neck revealed beneath strained flesh as another wound re-opened. Another abbreviated cry left Dean, piercing Sam's heart before it was cut off by his brother's attempts to fight back. Sam saw Dean's bottom lip tremble in wake of the reminder of the sensation that had prologued this scar. Sam recognized the wound…

He had been the one to give it to Dean.

Sam's eyes widened with horror at the sight of Dean's shoulder opening up, the blood from the old bullet wound blossoming and spreading across his shirt.

"No…"

Bob shrugged, his focus on Dean, watching the dark stain expand. "It doesn't matter if you believe it is true. Dean will pay the price."

Sam had unscrewed the cap on the flask, hands trembling, causing some to spill out. Bob's words were the breaking point.

"He's paid_** enough**_!" Sam screamed, lunging toward the arrogant being, flinging holy water at Bob's face.

Bob flinched back and away, stumbling and crying out as his hands flew up to bat at the burning liquid. Sam didn't stop his assault, lashing out again with another powerful swing of his arm. The slicing arc of water connected with Bob's chest, singeing him instantly, causing smoke to rise from his once neatly-pressed shirt. The wail of pain reverberating from the angel did nothing but make Sam loath him even more.

"What gives you the _**right**_?!" Sam fumed, tossing more water, drawing out thicker clouds of smoke. "To pass _**judgment**_ on my brother's _**life**_?!"

Dean watched, helpless to do anything but stay conscious and hope Sam would listen to him, as his body was wracked with uncontrolled tremors from the shock. Sam was seemingly unreachable, unrelenting, dousing Bob over and over with a fury that rivaled and overcame that day at the Hell's Gate. The darkness of Sam's voice, his stance, the way his face was contorted in his rage… Dean barely recognized him.

"S-Sam."

Dean ground out the name between clenched teeth, trying again to break through what had taken hold of his brother, but another wound tore open in his forehead before he could try again. This one was deeper, more painful than the last, the pain blooming back in a rippling effect through his skull, while wet warmth pulsed forward over his brow. His head started to spin violently, and his eyes fluttered shut against the vicious unsteadiness.

Sam had heard Dean's call, looking back to the see the new wound standing out against Dean's paling flesh like black on white. He saw Dean's eyelashes beat rapidly in pain, then clamp together before more blood pooled in around the edges. Sam spun on Bob, seething, chest heaving in powerful surges.

"Stop! Stop hurting him or I'll kill you so help me _**God!**_"

Bob stumbled way at the force behind Sam's voice. He was still burning, clothing saturated in holy water, smoke coated his limbs, rising from his shoulders in thick plumes.

He thrust out both wings as he lost his balance, going down to one knee. The feathers cut through the smoke, dispersing the thick mist away from his body. It caught the light from the stained glass, coating the air. It settled like a weak fog throughout the space, and because of it, Sam didn't notice the darker mist collecting along the floor, crawling out from the shadowed corners like vermin.

"God?" Bob laughed. "Why do you still call on God? He's turned his back. God's not gonna help you, Sam."

Bob's eyes slid toward Dean, but Sam's hand flung out in response, splashing more holy water into the angel's eyes.

"Leave. _Him_. **Alone.**" Sam's voice darkened, the threat carrying with it a promise, commanding Bob's obedience or he'd tear out every last feather from his undeserved wings.

Dean forced his eyes open, blinking back the thick film of blood and tears that had blanketed his eyes, trying to see his brother. He saw Sam throw more holy water from his flask, heard Sam speak to the angel in a tone that was unnatural from his brother's lips, and wanted so desperately to pull Sam back.

Bob's only response to Sam's order was a deep, mocking laugh. Sam threw himself onto him, taking them both to the ground. Sam's hands wrapped around Bob's throat, and his fingers dug into the soft tissue of his jugular. Bob was almost limp, the smile never leaving his face.

The arrogance of that smile thrust Sam deeper into his ferocity. He slammed his fists against the smug expression like he had the night before, this time the punches not only breaking open the scabs on his knuckles, but breaking open the burned flesh of Bob's face. Seeing the pain, the damage he was finally able to inflict, Sam didn't stop. _Couldn't_ stop.

"Why aren't you fighting back?!" Sam snarled.

Dean took in a stuttered breath as Sam's voice brought him from the black he had been drifting toward. He lifted heavy eyes to the scene he had been condemned to watch and suffer the inability to save Sam from a distance. He knew, even through the pain-drunk condition of his mind, that he had to keep fighting. He knew there had to be a way to reach Sam, to make him listen.

He saw the smoke, like a dark blanket of snow had settled over the mausoleum's floor. It had gathered about Sam's legs, churning about them with a life of its own. Dean whispered Sam's name again, pulling his head from his chest, keeping his eyes open despite the way they burned. He knew what was happening, what would happen to Sam if his brother failed to separate himself from the pain that had wrapped itself throughout him.

He'd read it only yesterday in that damn book. The wrathful were suffocated in blinding pillars of smoke.

"Sammy…"

Dean's plea was barely audible, his voice a weak mockery of his normal hearty defiance, yet it reached Sam. It snaked past the rage, the fury, the rebellion against the utter unfairness of their lives that had enveloped Sam with complete passion and soaked into his consciousness, pulling Sam's dark eyes from Bob's pliant face to regard his weakened, bloody brother.

"Sammy," Dean managed, blood dripping from his lower lip to splatter on the floor as he brought his head up. "Just… just leave… w-walk away… leave him…"

"Dean?"

"W-walk away, Sam," Dean whispered, his eyes blinking slow, light fading around the edges of his vision until only Sam's form remained clear.

Sam released his grip on Bob's shirt, his fist relaxing as the angel fell back against the cold stone floor. The searing cuts on his back suddenly, vividly made themselves known as he slowly straightened, the dark mist curling around his ankles, wrapping up his calves like transparent vines.

"What are you talking about?" Sam demanded, standing, facing his brother. "There's no way I'm leaving you!"

"Sam," Dean pulled his lower lip in, tasting his own blood, trying to swallow, feeling the tremble emanate from his heart to his fingertips. "You c-can't…_can't_ let him win."

"What?"

"I made that… that deal," Dean pulled in a breath, forcing himself to continue. "I made that deal so that they _wouldn't_win."

Sam stepped forward, blood dripping from his damaged knuckles as he relaxed his hands. His back was on fire; he felt wetness there from pulled stitches ignored in the heat of a rage-filled attack. "What… what do you mean?"

"We win, Sammy," Dean said, narrowing his eyes, forcing all of his strength, all of his love, all of his faith through his gaze and onto his brother. "You gotta believe that, man… y-you can beat this… beat him… but you have… have to believe…"

Sam pulled his brows together, taking in the image of Dean pinned against the wall, his shoulder, hand, and face gory with blood from Bob's "lesson," then turned slightly to look over his shoulder at Bob, the angel's face wet with blood from Sam's own hands.

_They'll drag him down in to the pit, burn him alive, tear him apart and rip open his soul for eternity, Sam. There is nothing you can do. No amount of praying is going to stop that._

"Sam!" Dean barked suddenly, strength he didn't have echoing in his demand for his brother's attention. He felt his body heat up, felt an energy he'd always attributed to his father fill his heart, swamp his being until he could bring his head up fully and force his eyes to bore into Sam's.

"You listen to me," he growled. "He picked you. _You're_ Wrath. He thinks he can get to you... play you. He thinks he can win, but he's wrong, isn't he?"

Sam blinked, realization of the truth in Dean's words saturating him.

"_Isn't_ he?" Dean bellowed. "He can't win if you believe in something… bigger than us, Sammy. You can beat this!"

Dean felt his chest constrict as the surge of strength that had allowed him to utter those words with the steel of the soldier he was born to be waned and he was left swimming in pain and blood. His lashes fluttered as his eyes fought to close and his head dropped once.

"Sam…" he practically begged, dragging his head up once more, willing himself to seek out his brother with burning eyes. "I _need_ you to believe…"

Dean's exhaustion was complete, but he looked at his brother through heavy eyes. He needed to see Sam, find his brother's eyes, seek out his balance. Sam had always been Dean's faith. He knew that now with a certainty born from the reality of death. Dean had never believed in anything as he believed in Sam. And if Sam lost his faith…

As Dean watched, Sam stepped away from Bob, closing the distance between himself and the invisible barrier that kept them apart in two strides. The smoky mist that had been wrapping around Sam's legs began to fade, retreating slowly back to its mysterious origins.

"Dean, I—" Sam began, reaching a trembling, bloody hand toward Dean.

"**NO**!" Bob growled from the stone floor, his tone echoing the darkness of his fallen soul.

Dean blinked and Sam turned as Bob whipped his burned face toward Dean, holy water and blood splashing onto the stone around him with the force of his movement.

Sam caught his breath, complete fear filling him as he turned back to Dean, following Bob's eye-line. In a second, Sam's world stilled as Dean cried out with pain—a gut-wrenching sound that threatened to buckle Sam's knees as he was forcibly reminded of the moment in the Missouri cabin, their father staring at his brother with a hated, yellow-eyed gaze as Dean's life bled from him.

"Dean!"

"Aww… God…" Dean gasped as his chest opened up, blood spilling from wounds too deep for memory, too deep for healing, too deep to survive. His agony was complete. He could barely pull in air, the sharp pain in his chest denying his lungs the ability to function as they were designed to do. He was fading, the edges of his vision crumpling to steal away his one focus, his one reality: _Sam. _"Sam… please…"

"No…" Sam stumbled forward with a sob, reaching out, unable to get close to his brother, unable to save him.

Dean met his eyes for one brief moment and Sam felt his brother's pain through the hazel depths pleading with him. Blood spilled from Dean's mouth, joining the trail of red already dripping from his chin, and fell to the stone floor beneath him. Sam felt hot tears trail from the corners of his eyes to the corners of his mouth as he watched Dean blink slowly, his brother fighting to stay with him, fighting to stay in this.

Rage flashed white-hot inside of Sam.

"No!" _No! No way it ends like this! No__**way**__ Dean dies like this!! _

Sam turned with a wordless roar, striding up to Bob's still-sprawled form and emptied the remaining bottle of holy water onto the angel's upturned face. He panted with grim satisfaction as Bob writhed in pain, his scream that of a thousand voices crying out in terror. Sam didn't flinch, didn't duck, didn't cover his ears. He relished the pain he was causing, soaked up the screams, enjoyed the thrashing of Bob's body as it bucked against the burns incited by the blessed water.

When the water was spent, Sam reached for Bob's trembling body, unaware of the gray mist that had wrapped up his legs, coiled around his waist was traveling in a steady, focused path for his neck. Gripping Bob's soaked shirt, Sam started to haul the angel's limp body forward, rearing his fist back, when he heard Dean's voice as close as if his brother was standing next to him.

"Sam," Dean whispered. "If you do this… you kill us both."

Sam whipped his head around to look at Dean. His brother's eyes were barely open, his lips hardly moving, but Sam could hear him clearly.

"Don't give up on me. D-don't give me up, Sam. You gotta believe… in something _bigger_ than us, man…"

"Dean," Sam whispered.

"You're_my_ faith," Dean's voice asserted, pain unable to weaken the conviction held inside of those four words.

As Sam watched, Dean's eyes rolled back in his head, his lashes brushing his bruised, bloody cheeks, and his head dropped to his chest, his body limp against the invisible force holding him to the wall.

"God, no…" Sam moaned.

Bob cackled in Sam's grip.

The cruelty of his laughter pulled Sam's attention, and he reluctantly looked away from Dean to look back at the thing in his hands, saw it celebrating victory with merciless eyes. Sam's hands loosened their grip on Bob's shirt in his devastation, and he found himself compelled to stare. The once hot rage that had fueled his strength was waning, cooling, dying off with every second that passed where Dean's silence was louder than the twisted sounds flooding past the angel's bloodied lips.

Bob's face was red with welts and blisters, disfigured by blood and bruises. Sam took in the bright blue of his eyes, saw the insanity churning there. He saw his own wild rage reflected, saw the manic nature he'd just given in to, and his breath caught with realization of how close to the edge of losing himself he'd been. Bloody tufts of feathers surrounded them. Bob's wings were as broken and twisted as Sam felt.

_We can forgive…_

For a brief moment, Sam felt sorry for him.

Something within Sam broke past the hate. The sight of what his hands had done culminated with the desire to get to Dean and the knowledge that his anger would only hurt his brother more, and it forced him to pause.

_You're my faith…_Dean's words washed over him like a balm, centering him, pulling him back toward a part of himself that he'd stopped listening to after all that he and Dean had faced. Sam stumbled back, legs suddenly weak from the gravity of what it took to open himself up again, to trust, to have faith.

He was aware of the smoke now, could see the way it was curled around his torso, but as he continued to back away from the angel's mocking laughter and blood-smeared visage, the supernatural mist started to dissipate.

In the next instant, Bob shot to his feet with unnatural speed, his movement so surreal and startling that Sam fell back against the stone floor. He could see the murder in Bob's eyes, agitated more by Sam's retreat.

"There are _more _wounds to inflict!" He growled. "Your brother led a _very_ violent, bloody life!"

Sam scrambled to his feet, shaking slightly from the sudden change in direction, from the panic that was building within him knowing that Dean was dying, from struggling against everything inside of him that wanted to fight back. He shook his head in defiance of Bob's incitement, sliding one foot behind the other, hands raised in surrender. He wasn't looking at Dean, or the blood collecting beneath his broken brother's feet. He wasn't looking at the irate creature in front of him, the symbol of faith lost, of wrath, of death. Sam wasn't looking at anything within the confines of the mausoleum.

His heel connected with the wall, and he couldn't go any further. With a trembling hand out in front of him, he reached for the floor, bending down onto one knee, eyes lifted.

"Please," his voice wavered, barely carrying the whisper. "Please. He has to live…"

The grotesquely disfigured wings at Bob's back opened to reveal bloody bone and large chunks of feathers missing from his once majestic span. His deranged appearance was made only more complete by the wrath-drunk look in his eyes at Sam's actions. Sam's pleas for Dean's life only added to the livid curl of Bob's lips.

"Not likely," he snarled, thrusting out a hand toward Dean, fully intent on causing the last moment of pain, wrenching the last bit of blood Dean's body held at bay, pulling the last bit of life from him.

But nothing happened.

Dean hung against the wall, blood still pouring from his wounds, running in rivulets down his fingers and lips, but no new wounds appeared. Bob roared in frustration, holding his hand out again to Dean, but this time Dean fell forward, released from his invisible restraints, and crumpled into a heap at the base of the wall.

Sam scrambled to his feet and sprinted to Dean's side, sliding in beside him, the barrier that had kept them apart eliminated. He pulled Dean's limp, bloody form up into his lap, cradling his brother's head against his chest. Sam felt warmth spill over his hands, his legs, his torso, and it took all he had to keep from loosing what strength he had left, drowning in the hopelessness that the sight that Dean this broken, this close to death, created.

Sam heard Bob bellow in an unparalleled rage; heard the sound of hundreds of voices wailing, howling, crying out, all intermixed within the soul-jarring noise that had infected the air around them. Sam pulled Dean closer to him, protecting him with the shield of his body, readying himself for the attack that he could feel building in the storm of resonance surrounding them.

The angel had been denied his seventh victim because Sam believed, because Dean had faith in him, and his resulting fury shook the very foundations of the building and poured over them in waves of heat and wind that made it hard to breathe.

Through the chaos Sam risked a look at Bob, lifting his eyes through wind-whipped bangs without moving his body, remaining Dean's last safeguard. Bob stood with crooked wings outstretched, shaking, broken, and bone bare. One clawed hand, reaching toward both of them, was trembling more violently then the tattered appendages behind him. He appeared to be stopped by something, frozen by his own invisible barrier, trapped like Dean had been.

The smoke that had been twisting around Sam's legs moments ago suddenly shot up from the ground, encasing Bob in a whirlwind of darkness. The force of the winds, the power behind the strange mist, was tearing away at what was left of his wings, filling Bob's mouth and nose, and pushing into his eye sockets, destroying the blue light. The screams were cut off, choked by smoke, and in their place was a dry rasping cry that gurgled to a stop as Bob was completely consumed by the product of his Wrath.

Sam had one last look at the shell of what Bob had been, the shriveled remnant of a once-beautiful creature, and then he was gone in a single bright burst of light and fire, that seared Sam's eyes, forcing him to look away with an abbreviated cry.

The air stilled, became less thick, and Sam's heart ached with the staggering loneliness that moved in swiftly after the smoke had dispersed.

He was alone.

His brother was bleeding to death in his arms.

"Dean," Sam whispered his name, choking on the weight of his tears. "He's gone now… you can wake up."

Sam felt a bead of moisture run down along his cheek, followed by another which collected on his lips. He tasted the salt of his tears, watching a few drip from the end of his nose and mix with the blood on Dean's lashes. "Go on, Dean, open your eyes. Open your eyes. DEAN. Open your eyes. I heard you… I listened… I believe, Dean."

Dean didn't move, didn't flinch. Sam watched his chest rise and fall slowly, barely moving beneath the fabric of his blood-soaked shirt. He could feel more of Dean's blood filling his hands, pressing its way through Sam's fingers. There was too much pouring from his wounds to try to stop. He knew this, yet he kept pressing against the jagged openings, telling himself that Dean would be all right if he could just get him back to the Impala, if he could just find something to tie off his shoulder, to pack his chest…

"Dean…"

Sam could feel Dean slipping, could feel his brother leaving him with every increasingly-weaker breath he took, with every pulse of warmth that spilled over Sam's hand…

There was nothing Sam could do to save Dean, and with that final realization, he felt something tear loose inside of him.

Sam threw back his head and screamed with a broken, hollowed-out sound that only a soul being rendered in half could make. The hopeless cry ended in a gasping sob that ripped through the empty, quiet crypt in a gut-wrenching echo. He tugged Dean closer to him, wrapping his arms around him tighter, rocking a little like a scared child.

Sam's eyes lifted to the stained glass, taking in the colors, the pictures that were supposed to bring hope... They held nothing for him, and the glare burned his tear-raw eyes. He ducked his head back into the shadow of his body, pressing shut his eyes, pushing out large, hot tears.

"I prayed…every day..." He whispered. Inside he was open, a wounded mess. "Everyday…and I'm still going to lose you…" He sucked in a breath, felt his chest shudder against the weight of it, and shook his head. He'd never experienced more perfected agony.

"Please…" The plea barely passed his lips, showering more tears upon Dean's pale cheeks. "Dean gave everything for me—all of his life…" Sam lifted his eyes again, not caring if it hurt to stare directly into the light pouring in through the windows. "When will it be enough? Please…don't…"

It was the question of soul left bare. It was all he had left. Sam closed his eyes, holding his brother tight, willing his warmth to seep into the cold that wrapped around Dean. _I'm not ready…_

Unable to do more, he bowed his head, trying to appeal to the one thing that had never let him down: his brother's will.

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Dean was cold.

Achingly cold. To-the-bone cold. He'd felt this before. He remembered falling through the ice once when he was young—eight or nine. He'd been trying to take a short cut through a wooded lot to get to John, hadn't seen the snow-covered pond, and before he could take a breath, he'd gone down. It had only taken a minute for his body to go numb, for his heart to pound painfully in his ears, behind his eyes, for his lungs to scream in protest. He'd felt his bones crackle with the pain of the cold before his father's strong arms sluiced through the frigid wet to grasp his reaching hands and haul him to safety.

That chill was nothing like the sensation that currently wrapped around him. He knew it was the grip of death that held him, pulling him to the icy center of hell that Dante had described so vividly, trapping him in a lonely existence of burning cold, demonic taunting, helpless struggles. He wanted to breathe, wanted the relief of air filling his lungs, the warmth that meant life, light, hope.

He wanted to tremble, to shiver, to move.

_He's gone now… you can wake up…_

Who was gone? Dad? Wait, no, not Dad… Dad had fought his way free, had climbed from the depths of the Inferno itself, had returned to him the very moment he'd so desperately needed his father, had saved his life. _Then who…_

Dean suddenly felt something familiar gripping him tightly, holding him close. Something he'd know anywhere, something he'd know blind: _Sam._ He knew his brother better than anyone. He realized he was no longer pinned to the stone wall of the mausoleum. He could feel the closeness of his brother's warmth, hear his brother's voice, sense the tremor of terror held at bay in Sam's words.

He struggled to bring those words into focus, struggled to understand the weight, the meaning Sam's voice carried with it. But he couldn't… couldn't move, couldn't breathe, and he was beginning to panic. Not breathing was bad. Not breathing and being so cold… God he was so… _cold_…

Salty wetness fell against his slightly parted lips, rolling slowly across the wounded surface and trickling onto his lax tongue. Tears. Sam's tears.

_Open your eyes, Dean… DEAN. Open your eyes… Please… I heard you… I listened…_

Heard him? What had he said?

_When will it be enough? Please…don't…_

Dean fought against the overpowering weakness that swamped him, pulling him down into a darkness so complete he instinctively knew there was no coming back, tugging at him with greedy fingers of desire, dragging him low before he was ready.

_I believe… I believe… Dean? You hear me? I believe… I—_

"…believe. Dean? Okay? You can open your eyes now. C'mon, man, please. Please don't do this."

He heard him now. Heard Sam. He grabbed onto his brother's words like a life line, climbing away from the seductive lure of the dark, tightening his fingers around Sam's bloody hand, squeezing back as hard as he could.

"Dean?"

Dean forced his eyes open, succeeding in separating his lashes with a small sliver of green, seeing Sam's glistening eyes in the soft light of the mausoleum.

"Dean, you with me? Hey… hey man, keep those eyes open, okay? We won, Dean. We beat him. I believe, okay? I believe. You were right…"

Sam's words trembled and tumbled from him like water over rocks, tripping in an eagerness to convince his brother that he needed to stay.

Dean dug deep, pulling from his gut his last reserve of strength, just enough to whisper two words: "I know."

He took a shuttering breath, knowing this time with certainty that it should be his last. His weariness took hold of him. His will was tapped. He'd fought the last good fight, and as he predicted, saving his brother had been the last thing he did. He felt his mouth relax into a smile as Sam's desperate tears dripped from his chin to splash against Dean's bloody face. He felt Sam's hand crush his face against him and relaxed against the familiar smell that was Sam, ready to give in.

In that moment of surrender, Dean's body was filled with heat—heat so intense that it seared his heart, his lungs, his throat. He fell victim to the power of that heat, his back arching against Sam's arms, his head falling back as he cried out in pain. He was on fire, his chest alight with it, his shoulder burning, his head in flames. Every wound that Bob's power had opened shook through him with a frighteningly concentrated force.

"Ahhh!!" Dean screamed, his cries covering the echo of pain that shot through Sam as his body bucked in his brother's arms.

Sam had jerked in fear when Dean suddenly arched in his arms, screaming as if he were being cut in two. Light shone from Dean's body, shooting from his opened mouth, his closed eyes, his ears, his wounded chest, his fisted fingers—shone in a blinding brilliance that illuminated the dim cavern of the mausoleum and shot through Sam's bowed body with a surprising shock of heat and pain, burning the slashed wounds that traversed across Sam's back from the angel's attack.

His body a volcano of pain, Dean tried to reach for Sam, wanting to ground himself as he was taken over the edge, wanting to hold on just a little bit longer, but he could do nothing more than clench his jaw and hope for an end to the torment. His throat felt torn, his body trembling, his hands shaking. He could barely feel Sam's arms around him anymore.

And then it was over.

Silence once again surrounded them, broken only by the harsh sounds of their breathing. Dean's heart beat in his ears, behind his eyes, in his throat, everywhere, it seemed, but where it was supposed to beat. He cautiously opened his eyes, looking up, then around. He was lying against Sam, his back and head on Sam's legs, Sam's arm under his neck.

Sam was curled over him in an exhausted, protective slump. He could feel Sam shaking and carefully rolled his eyes to find his brother's features, afraid that any sudden movement of his head would send it rolling from his shoulders and across the stone floor of the mausoleum.

Sam's tears tracked down his smooth face, collecting on his chin, but no longer gathered in his eyes. He was blinking at Dean in bewilderment.

"What…" Dean tried, swallowing against the rawness of his ravaged throat. "What happened?"

"I…" Sam started, then looked over to the center of the room where Dean had last seen Bob.

Dean reached a hesitant hand to his chest, realizing for the first time since the intense heat had ended that he no longer felt pain. No pain. Not in his chest, his shoulder, his hand… no pain in his head. His fingers trembled as they traveled from his chest to his face, feeling for the cuts he knew had opened up there. Blood was wet on his chin, down his cheek across his forehead, but...

"They're… Dean, they're gone," Sam whispered.

"Gone?"

"Yeah," Sam tugged the sticky, blood-soaked shoulder of Dean's T-shirt down a bit, touching his brother's scarred, healed skin in wonder. "All of them. Gone."

"How?" Dean tightened his stomach muscles and pulled himself forward, feeling Sam's hand press against his back, helping him sit up next to his brother in a tangled heap of confused wonder.

Sam swallowed. "Um…"

Dean started to shake his head. "Wait… you don't think…"

Had he been... healed? The heat… the light…

"You told me to believe, man," Sam said, blinking at Dean. He reached up to wipe the back of his hand across his tear-streaked face. "You knew what Bob was doing. _You_ knew how to get rid of him."

Dean pressed his hand against his chest once more, feeling the sticky wetness of blood there, but no wounds underneath. "I was trying to save you, Sam," he said, hearing the weakness still present inside of his own words. "I didn't think—"

"What? That you could be saved, too?" Sam challenged.

Dean blinked at his brother, wanting to believe, afraid to trust. He looked down at his wet T-shirt, wiping ineffectually at the blood covering his hand.

"All I know, man," Sam said in a low whisper, "is that… you screamed… and the whole room filled with this… this blinding light…"

He'd been healed. "I… I don't… I don't believe it." Dean stared at his bloody hand, seeing the evidence of the pain he could still remember but no longer feel. He'd told Sam to believe, he'd _needed_ Sam to believe, instinctively knowing that it was the only way to save his brother, the only way to defeat the angel. But he hadn't thought that he…

He felt Sam's hesitant fingers touch his forehead where moment before a deep gash had been and he flinched back.

"Sorry," Sam whispered. "I just… there was so much blood, and you… God, Dean, you were…"

Dean swallowed.

"I'm not ready." Sam's voice was barely audible, but it cut as deep into Dean as the old wounds Bob had revisited upon him.

Dean closed his eyes, unaware that he'd once again pressed his hand to his chest, his hands slipping a bit on the blood saturating the cotton of his shirt. _I'm not ready_… Sam's confession echoed the quiet plea of his own heart. The words he could never say to Sam. The knowledge that Sam would one day know the pain of holding his brother in his arms and know he wasn't sleeping… he wasn't coming back…

"Hey," Dean said suddenly, looking up at Sam's face, seeing the achingly young look in his brother's eyes. "What about you?"

"Me?" Sam frowned, confused.

Dean reached for Sam's shoulder, turning him so that he could get to the back of his T-shirt. "What about you?" he repeated.

"Hey!" Sam protested, trying to twist away, but Dean was too quick. One glance told him that the triple tracks of stitches he'd carefully applied last night to Sam's back were no longer there.

"Holy shit," Dean breathed. _You have to believe in something bigger than us, man…_

"Gone?" Sam's voice was hopeful, hesitant.

"Yeah," Dean whispered. "Yeah, Sammy, they're… they're gone."

The sat together for a moment, eyes down, backs bowed with astonishment, silence their only reverence. Dean was the first to raise his head, staring at Sam's profile, waiting for his brother to meet his eyes. He cleared his throat, trying to regroup, working to assimilate all that had happened to them that morning.

"What about Bob?" Dean asked, his lips quirking at his own pun.

Sam looked over to where he'd seen the gray mist of Wrath's punishment wrap around Bob. A small pile of white feathers topped by a single, singed, black feather was the only reminder that a fallen angel had once stood among them.

"Smoked," Sam said.

Dean looked at the feathers. "How's that for poetic justice, huh? Angry angel taken out by Wrath."

Sam nodded, then with a sigh, pushed himself slowly to his feet, reaching a hand down for Dean.

Dean looked up at him. "We did it, man."

"I guess," Sam allowed as Dean gripped his wrist, hauling his brother to his feet. He flexed the muscles across his back, relishing the lack of pain, the absence of the tight pull of stitches that had been there just minutes before.

Dean wavered a moment. "Whoa."

"Take it easy, okay? You lost a lot of blood."

"Guess blood loss isn't..." Dean swallowed, blinking, working to focus his eyes. "Isn't covered in the Heavenly Healthcare Plan."

"No, guess not," Sam gripped Dean's upper arm until his brother appeared steadier. "But I'll take wound healing over the alternative."

"Yeah, me, too," Dean nodded, toeing the pile of feathers with the tip of his boot.

"Think we should do something with those?" Sam asked.

"Like what? Stuff a pillow?"

"Not funny, man."

"It was a little funny," Dean grinned, leaning slightly into Sam's strong grip.

"You're unbelievable," Sam shook his head.

"Dude, seriously? Do _not_ bum me out on this. We defeated an angel."

Sam frowned. "He defeated himself. All we did was survive."

"Yeah, well," Dean held Sam's eyes. "Some days, that's enough."

Sam sighed, allowing his face to relax into a smile that echoed his brother's. "You ready?"

Dean nodded, letting Sam turn him toward the door and the stone steps. Sam kept his hand on Dean's arm, feeling his brother's unsteady tremble beneath his fingertips.

"I've had about enough of the Friendliest Goddamn Town in Oklahoma," Dean muttered as they stepped from the gray interior of the mausoleum into the bright sunlight of the Sunday afternoon.

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a/n: Thanks all for reading and letting us know what you think. We wouldn't want to do this without you.

The poem carved on Patience Wild's coffin is _Do not stand at my grave and weep_ by Mary Frye, 1932

_To be concluded…_


	8. The Benediction

**Disclaimer/Spoilers/Authors:** See Chapter 1.

a/n: Thank you all reading and for leaving us comments and feedback. This story has been an amazing journey for two writers—from its conception nearly a year ago this February to its end this week, we have traveled a long road together and we are so grateful to those of you who have joined us.

We hope this coda brings closure to this hunt in true Winchester fashion. Because, as we all know… there will always be evil to hunt, and bad guys to defeat. Inside ourselves or in the world.

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_"Ernest Hemingway once wrote, 'The world is a fine place and worth fighting for.'_

_I agree with the second part."--Morgan Freeman_

_And if the mountain should crumble  
Or disappear into the sea  
Not a tear, no not I  
Stay in this time  
Stay tonight in a lie  
Ever after  
This love in time  
And if you save your love  
Save it all_

_-- "The Unforgettable Fire", U2_

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The Benediction

As they stepped out from the dim, dusty light of the shadowed mausoleum to the surreal radiance of mid-day, Dean realized that his focus had narrowed to two things: Sam and the Impala. On one level, he was conscious of his body operating almost on auto-pilot. Breaths huffed in and out. Legs moved, propelling him forward. Fingertips brushed the edges of his jeans.

He felt the sticky wetness of his own blood plastering his shirt uncomfortably against his chest, pulling at his thighs as it dried on his jeans. He felt a soft stirring of air against the fine hairs on the back of his neck. He felt his brother's hand on his arm. He _felt…_

_Sam… _

It would always come down to Sam. Dean had long ago accepted that nothing was as important to him as his brother. Not even his own life. But right now, life seemed pretty damn important. Because… if he hadn't been alive… if he hadn't been able to get to Sam, to remind him… Bob could have…

Dean stumbled.

"Whoa, easy." Sam tightened his grip on Dean's arm. "You need to rest?"

"Why would I need to rest?" Dean looked over at him, honestly confused. It was over. They won. They _beat _a fallen angel.

"Because you lost a helluva lot of blood, Dean," Sam reminded him, softly. "You don't… you don't look so good right now."

"I'm okay," Dean waved a hand toward Sam, but found himself leaning into Sam's hand, silently encouraging his brother to hold on. Just in case. "How far away did we park the car?"

"It's a little ways yet," Sam said, subtly moving them toward a tree. "Here. Take a load off."

"Fine," Dean huffed. "If you need to sit down, I won't get in your way."

Sam's soft lips tipped up in a tolerant smile and he bent over, easing Dean to the ground. Dean leaned back against the tree, closing his eyes and letting the wind wash over him, carrying him to a different place. He heard Sam drop to the ground beside him, also leaning against the tree, his shoulder resting against Dean's in a comfortable closeness.

Dean wanted to hold his breath, hold this minute, stop time just for a heartbeat. With eyes closed, he felt the last few moments rush up to him like a movie on fast forward, felt the fear that had accompanied too much of this week fill him once more.

Fear had a taste. It was salty and coppery and burned his throat with its potency. Fear for Sam. Fear of loss. Fear that there was so much more out there then they knew. Then even _Dad_ had known. They hadn't seen the worst of it, and they had seen _so much_ evil.

"Dean?"

"Hmm?"

"What do you think that light was?"

"What do you mean?" Dean blinked his eyes open.

"Do you think… do _you_ think it was…God?"

Dean was silent. Possibilities like water rolled over him leaving him feeling dizzy and sick. He closed his eyes again, willing away the sensation, pressing his shoulder harder into Sam's. He opened his mouth slightly, trying for more air, trying to steady himself.

"…back to the car… something to eat… give me your hand, Dean."

"What?" Dean blinked. He turned his head, trying to find Sam. How had he ended up lying on the ground?

"You back with me?"

"Where did I go?"

Sam shook his head and Dean realized he was on his knees next to him, his large hands gripping Dean's shoulders.

"You passed out on me when I asked you about God."

"Oh," Dean opened his eyes wide, looking around and rocking forward, trying to sit up. "Well, you know better than to bring up deities when I don't have coffee."

"Nice avoidance tactic," Sam shook his head, frowning as Dean pushed his elbows into the dirt, working to leverage himself. "Take it easy," Sam admonished, helping him up.

Dean glanced over at his brother's tone. Sam was frowning at his shirt. Dean looked down at the gory mess. He needed to get out of these clothes.

"Let's go home, Sam," he said quietly.

Sam nodded. "Best idea I've heard all morning."

Using Sam as a crutch, Dean gained his feet. "You okay?"

Sam nodded. "Except for a weird feeling like I'm in a movie, yeah, I'm fine."

"Dude," Dean chuckled. "We're like Butch and Sundance."

They continued to the Impala, Sam's fingers wrapped around Dean's arm once more.

"Butch and Sundance died, Dean."

"We don't know that," Dean pointed out.

Sam drew his head back, looking at Dean askance. "They were shot to hell, ran out of that building and the Bolivian Army unleashed on them."

"But we didn't actually _see_ them die, did we?"

They reached the Impala and Dean dug the keys out of his pocket, handing them to Sam, who raised his eyebrows, a question plain in his eyes.

"Dude, I feel three sheets to the wind right now," Dean leaned his hip against the warm, black hood of the car. "You don't want me behind the wheel."

"Stay there, I'll get you some—" Sam paused, his head canted to the side as if listening.

"What?"

"You hear that?"

"Timmy stuck in the well again, Lassie?"

"Bells."

"Come again?" Dean rotated and slid down the side of the car, his back against the passenger-side wheel of the Impala. He started to feel steadier just being close to his car.

"I can hear the church bells from here."

"Good for you, Sam," Dean pulled his brows together. "You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah," Sam chuckled. "It's just that… they're playing a hymn. This one that Jess really liked."

"You remember her favorite… hymn?"

"Well, it's not like she had fifty or something," Sam glanced down at him, frowned, then moved around to the trunk as he continued to talk. "She just really liked this one. _'Be Thou My Vision.'_ Said it… moved her."

Dean tipped his head back against the side of the car, closing his eyes against the warm glare of the sun, letting its rays warm his skin as he listened to the comforting sound of his brother's voice. He could hear Sam digging around in the trunk, but didn't pay attention to what he was doing. Just being able to hear Sam move around was enough.

"Y'know," Sam said, his voice muffled slightly. "We left our weapons back there."

"Don't care," Dean muttered, "not going back. We can get new ones. Somewhere."

"Here," Sam said, his voice suddenly close. "Drink this."

Dean squinted one eye open. "What is it?"

"Mountain Dew."

Dean curled his lip. "That's your drink."

"It's got a lot of sugar, and you're tanking," Sam retorted. "And eat this, too. Found it in your pack, so you can't complain."

Dean closed his fingers around the stick of beef jerky Sam shoved into his hand.

"You need to get something in your system," Sam said.

Dean sighed. "Can't we just go to a diner or something?"

"We will," Sam assured him. "But I want you to be conscious when we get there."

"Fine," Dean grumbled, pushing himself up taller against the wheel. "You're so bossy."

His words triggered a memory of Sam saying much the same thing to him not too long ago. Right before he made Dean promise to kill him. Dean shivered slightly.

"I brought you some clothes, too."

"You want me to change _here?_" Dean asked, chewing on the jerky.

"What, you're modest now?"

Dean folded his lips down in an _okay, I'll give you that_ frown and continued to eat. Sam dropped down in front of him, crossing his ankles and catching his knees in the crook of his elbows, hands clasped.

"So… you think that because we didn't see them die, they're still out there somewhere?"

Dean blinked. "Dude, warn a guy when you flip five pages back in the story."

"I'm just sayin'…"

"First, they're not out there. They lived like… a hundred years ago. If they _are_ out there, then we should be looking for them," Dean said, then swallowed a gulp of Mountain Dew. "And second," he said, gasping as the carbonation sizzled down his throat. "All I meant is that we don't know what exactly happened to them. We never saw it."

"So… you think you have to _see_ something to believe it."

Dean shrugged. "Sure."

Sam rolled his neck, watching Dean eat. "Jess made me go to church with her a couple times."

Dean stopped chewing for a moment, watching Sam's eyes fade with memory. He swallowed the jerky, then waited.

"I never really wanted to go, but I liked to make her happy."

"You didn't want to go?" Dean asked, surprised. "Thought you prayed every day." He hadn't meant for it to come out mockingly, but he heard the edge of bitterness framing his words and inwardly cringed.

Sam rolled over his tone, sliding his eyes to the side. "I did. Do…" he amended. "But it's one thing to… to _believe_, and another thing to _practice._"

"Yeah, I can see that," Dean nodded.

Sam sighed, reaching for the empty Mountain Dew bottle and handing the clean shirt to Dean. "It just… after this morning… after what happened in there... to you... to _us_... it means more, somehow."

Dean leaned forward, grabbing his shirt between his shoulder blades and pulling it off over his head. The material literally peeled away from his chest where the blood had dried to his skin. He looked down at his bare chest, seeing familiar scars, tracks of knives, the path of his life, but no open wounds.

He took the clean shirt from his brother and pulled it on, then used the car to stand up, shifting out of his jeans and changing into a cleaner, if not holier, pair. He and Sam looked down at the pile of bloody clothes on the ground between them.

"It could have been God," Dean said finally, breaking the silence. He saw Sam jerk his head up in his periphery, but kept his eyes down. "It could have been one of the angel's Mom always said were watching over us. It could have been… you."

Dean lifted his eyes to meet his brother's shocked stare. Sam seemed too surprised at Dean's words to protest, so Dean pressed his advantage and continued to talk.

"You know," he scratched the back of his head. "It's not like I didn't believe in God, Sam. I always wanted to. I just… I couldn't see how so much shit could happen if there was someone watching out for people. I'd think 'I'll never let anything happen to Sam, not like God let's happen to people he's supposed to love'."

He moved around Sam's silence to the still-open trunk of the car, digging through his bag for lighter fluid and matches.

"But… then you left, and I couldn't watch out for you anymore," Dean said, still looking down, unscrewing the cap of the lighter fluid, and returning to Sam. "And then… then Dad died, and I kinda didn't care what God did or didn't do. I mean, not like he paid attention to what I wanted, right?" Dean began to squirt the lighter fluid on the pile of clothes, then screwed the cap back on. "Then you died, Sam."

Dean lifted his eyes, pinning Sam's with his own, showing his brother how much he believed what he was about to tell him. How much he needed Sam to believe.

"You died and I lost everything. And I hated him. I _hated _anything to do with God. It never occurred to me that he might be able to help me because I _knew_ the demons would. I had _seen _them do it… but I'd never seen God do… anything, really. That I knew of, anyway."

He pulled a match free from the book, struck the head with his thumbnail and dropped it onto his pile of bloody, lighter-fluid soaked clothes. Sam took a reflexive step back, his eyes quietly shifting between the small fire and Dean's suddenly loquacious mouth.

"But… this hunt, man," Dean said, dropping his eyes from Sam to the fire, watching as the hot blue faded to a warm orange, and remembering what it felt like to have flames crawl up his leg, what it felt like to have his brother pull him free of Hell, what it felt like to be saved.

"This hunt shifted that. Bob… Bob wasn't that much different than me."

This brought a rise out of Sam. "What?!"

"He was angry, Sam. And he did something about it. He hurt people."

"You don't hurt people, Dean."

"I hurt some people," Dean said quietly, pulling his bottom lip in with his teeth before continuing. "But that's not my point. My point is, I was angry at God… and I did something about it. To save you," Dean looked at Sam. "But, Sam… whatever that light was…whatever…_healed_ us… you're the one that saved us."

"Me?"

"You… you always believed, man. Even when I forgot how. You always did, and I knew that. I trusted in that. Held on to it," Dean confessed. "I knew that you hadn't really lost it—Bob hadn't taken it away from you completely. He just made you forget for awhile."

"And you helped me remember," Sam said, the fading fire reflecting in his hazel eyes.

Dean nodded. "I didn't have to see what you believed in to know it was real… _you _made it real…"

Dean turned to the Impala, opened the passenger door, and sank gratefully into the sun-warm interior.

"Did you mean what you said?" Sam asked, stamping out the final embers of Dean's clothes, then turning toward the open door. "Back in the mausoleum?"

"Gonna have to narrow it down for me," Dean said, tipping his head back and closing his eyes.

"When you said I was your faith," Sam said quietly, resting his hand on the window of the Impala's door.

Dean opened one eye, squinting at his brother, the sun at Sam's back. "Yeah," he said. "I meant it."

The regarded each other another moment.

Sam tapped the top of the door with his palm and moved toward the driver's side, pausing a moment to look back at the mausoleum before ducking into the car. He shifted around until his large frame was comfortable, letting go a pensive sigh.

"You really believe that?" Sam asked. "You really believe in me?"

Dean looked Sam in the face, making sure he had his attention. He'd just told him that he'd meant it. He'd meant it more than a lot of things he'd said in the past. If there was one thing he wanted to drill home in that moment, it was the fact that he believed Sam was the reason he was still there.

Sam had been what had saved him, and Dean had always believed in his brother. He'd believed in him long before this day, long before the yellow-eyed demon's death, back when he'd had to watch Sam beg him to take his life if he ever became what the demon wanted him to become, and long before that. Dean had hope in the person sitting next to him.

Sam was his faith. End of story.

"Yeah," Dean nodded. "Yeah, Sammy. What? You don't trust me?"

Sam looked away from Dean's deliberate gaze, staring at the wheel. He turned over the engine, hand pausing on the keys before he shifted the Impala into drive. "No, no, it's not that. It's just…" Sam fixed his eyes on Dean's again returning the intensity there. "If you believed that I could save you from an avenging angel, how come you can't believe that I can save you from this deal?"

It was Dean's turn to look away, and he knew there would be no passing out to escape this question. He lifted his eyes a little before exhaling loudly, slouching in the seat.

"It's not that, I…"Dean started, wetting his lips. "It's just…"

"What?" Sam asked gently. The question hadn't been meant as an insulting inquiry. Sam wanted—_needed_—to know if any of this had changed anything for Dean. To know if those words in the mausoleum had only been said out of desperation.

"Look," Dean said holding up a hand. "It's just different."

"How?"

"It just…_is_. The angel wanted _you_, Sam. He was just using me to get to you. If we try to find a way out of the deal, and you die because I couldn't live up to my end of the damn bargain, I couldn't handle that. It's not an option. I've told you already… I'd rather die."

Sam didn't know what to say to that; for a moment his spirits faltered in the presence of Dean's words, any light of hope he thought for sure he'd seen in Dean's eyes, and had taken as his own, dimming. He reflexively reached for the radio and turned it on.

He was looking for something to do, looking for a distraction for a few more moments to digest what his brother was saying before he sifted through it. Zeppelin's _Fool in the Rain_ provided a quick break from the silence and he caught Dean, out of the corner of his eye, shift against the window to rest his head. It was Dean's way of breaking off the conversation.

_"…The clock on the walls moving slower. My heart it sinks to the ground. And the storm that I thought would blow over, clouds the light of the love that I found…"_

Watching the road, listening to Page, Sam suddenly realized that the apparent brevity of Dean's hope didn't weigh him down like he thought it would. There was unexplainable warmth inside of him that had lingered since the light had burst through Dean and into him. The spark there made it impossible for him to be heavy with the weight of Dean's words. He was too full at the moment to believe that there was no hope. It was because of this—whatever this was—that he was somehow at ease, at peace, calm.

Something inside of Sam_knew_ he'd save his brother.

He didn't have a clue what that looked like, or how he was going to do it, but it didn't matter at the moment. It was enough to believe that it could happen, that he could steal his brother back from Hell. Sam could win. He already had. Dean had died in his arms, but had been returned to him without deals, without loopholes.

Thinking back through their lives, there had been so many times where he'd almost lost his brother, and yet Dean was still there. _They_ were still there… and for the first time for as long as Sam could remember, he didn't feel like they were alone anymore.

The universe wasn't as screwed up as Sam had thought. The balance of good and evil hadn't been cruelly tipped to the point of hopelessness. There _was_ something bigger out there to believe in—something had been watching close enough to save Dean, to save him. Sam took a moment to appreciate startling clarity that it had saved them both, and not just from death…

There was something to hope in again.

Sam looked again at his brother, wondering what was going through Dean's head. Sam couldn't bring himself to believe that after everything that had just transpired, Dean was still resigned to the deal. Dean's eyes were fixed to the landscape passing by, ignoring all else. _For Your Life _played and Sam caught Dean's fingers bouncing against his thigh not quite to the beat.

_"…Heard a cry for mercy, in the city of the damned. Oh oh babe, damned. Impossible to go lower… The next stops on the ground. Oh, low on the ground…."_

Cry for mercy…

Sam realized why Bob had picked Dante as his tool, why Bob had taken so much satisfaction from torturing Dean, even though he was trying to get to Sam. The angel had hated the idea that anyone could be forgiven, that they could be saved. Using Dante—a man-made work of literature—for the murders mocked mankind for thinking there could be hope. Purgatorio was about making amends for mistakes, gaining reprieve, clawing one's way out of Hell…

Kind of like their father had done. Maybe Bob had seen and been enraged by the same spirit in Dean…

At least _Sam_ saw that spirit there. He wasn't so sure Dean would agree.

Sam's thoughts scattered at the ringing of one of their phones in the glove box. Dean exchanged a weary look with him, before groaning and curling forward to get it.

"Now what?" Dean barked, rifling through the mess of papers and pushing aside weapons to get to the small cell at the back of the compartment. It was one they kept close contacts on, and it ringing now could only mean someone needed a favor or was giving them a head's up.

Dean checked the number and grinned, flipping it open.

"Hotline for the eternally damned."

"Dean?" Bobby's voice came across the receiver, confused.

Dean's smile broadened. "Hey, Bobby."

He heard Bobby's abbreviated huff, could picture him rolling his eyes and adjusting that well-worn trucker's hat.

"Your brother with you? Think you could put me on speaker phone?"

"Yeah…"

Dean punched one of the buttons and set the phone on the seat between them. "You're now on conference call with the Brothers Winchester."

Sam lifted an eyebrow at Dean. His mouth twisted in a quirk of a smile before he answered their friend.

"What can we do for you, Bobby?"

"Dean alright?"

"I'm right here, Bobby. I can hear you asking Sam questions about me."

"He's fine, Bobby," Sam tried not to let his amusement seep too much into his voice. "Just got off of a hunt, but we're fine…"_Miraculously_, he thought

"Well, thought you both should know there've been signs of demonic activity in Kansas."

The statement almost instantly elicited an audible scoff from Dean.

"Been there, done that, used the T-shirt as a bandage."

They could hear Bobby exhale. "Your brother hit his head, Sam?"

"Still here," Dean spoke up.

"We could look into it," Sam jumped in. "What's been going on?"

"Murders within families. Mostly family businesses. All along a stretch where one of those storm clouds was spotted earlier. Sulfur at the crime scenes. Any survivors claim strange happenings, electrical issues, pet disappearances, people they've known their whole lives acting out of character."

"So it's pretty straight forward. This thing isn't even trying to hide," Sam said.

"Nope. This demon pretty much pulled its pants down and mooned us. Whole thing feels like it is challenging someone to just try and step in."

Sam saw Dean slide his eyes to the phone with a _give me a break_ expression. "We're on it, Bobby."

"You guys sure? Sounds like you just…"

"We'll take it, Bobby," Dean re-emphasized sharply. "Probably some small-fry, lower level with a Napoleon complex."

Sam looked over at him and Dean mouthed _what?_ in response.

"I'll call you back, need to check a few things if you two are heading out there now."

Sam picked up the phone. "Sure thing, Bobby. We'll wait for your call." He flipped the phone shut and tossed it back onto the seat between them.

"You mind telling me what that was about?" Sam asked.

"You tell me Mr. _We could look into it_. That wasn't exactly a 'no'." Dean shot back. "So I've lost some blood. I'll make more."

"Between here and Kansas, Dean?" Sam asked skeptically.

"Yeah. Besides, I _feel_ fine. I wanna keep going. I haven't felt this _charged_ in a long time."

Sam pulled onto West 412, keeping silent, hiding a smile. As screwed up as this past week had been, they'd needed it. They'd needed to be given something to keep going on, and while Dean wasn't about to admit that he'd found himself again, Sam could see it, feel it. It was no longer about going through the motions, killing demons before the clock ran down…Sam could _feel _Dean's return to _the hunt._

"You were right," Sam after they'd driven for a while without speaking. His mind had been backtracking through things, sorting it out.

Dean stopped tapping out the beat to _Black Dog_ and gave Sam a smile. "I'm always right."

"Yeah, yeah," Sam returned. "That oldest card."

Dean grinned a little longer before dropping it, confused. "What exactly was I right about again?"

Sam laughed. "You seemed like you knew."

"What? When you're right about everything it's hard to keep track," Dean replied.

"You'd promised we'd save the last victim, and we did. Bob never got to her…We survived…"

Dean shrugged, "I guess it depends on how you look at it. Bob was consumed by Wrath. Maybe what they say is true—that your sins really find you out."

Sam shifted his gaze to Dean, trying to read him within the boundaries of that statement. Dean must have picked up on it, because he lifted a shoulder.

"However," Dean conceded with a tip of his head. "We're at war. Casualties are inevitable. And, I suppose, so are second chances." He raised his tired, green eyes to meet Sam's.

Dean watched Sam's mouth tip up in a ghosting of a smile before looking back at the road. It was the closest that Dean would allow himself to admit out loud that they could win this, that he could be saved. He couldn't give Sam false hope, but he couldn't deny that he felt different, that suddenly it wasn't about living out these last days to feel like his life meant something. It was about now knowing it did.

Second chances.

The yellow-eyed demon had asked him if his brother was one hundred percent Sam, had made Dean question if there was a possibility Sam wasn't himself. Dean had given himself up for a second chance, a second chance tainted by doubt, challenging Dean's faith in Sam, and yet his brother chose him over vengeance.

It made Dean wonder what he was supposed to do with this chance again at life. It felt like every second chance he'd been given was tainted. He couldn't understand why his life was worth the lives of others, and giving it to Sam gave Dean some purpose, some sense that he was giving penance to what he'd seen as senseless death. Lives had been given so someone like him could keep living.

This time no one had died for his second chance, it had just been given to him, and Dean didn't know what to do with that.

"You gonna sleep?" Sam asked.

Dean didn't feel like sleeping, but he knew he needed it, had caught his almost pain-inducing reflection a few times now in the side mirror. Stumbling back to the car, having passed out, and now Sam's mother-hen expression all were more than enough hints that he needed to take it easy. Even if his mind was moving too fast for him to realize he needed rest, that didn't mean it wouldn't do him some good.

"You should sleep, Dean."

Dean knew an _I'm fine_ would only make Sam more persistent, and he relinquished, leaning against the cool glass of the window and closing his eyes.

www

"Wichita?"

"Looks like," Sam pulled off the exit when he saw the blue sign indicating Gas, Food, and Lodging. "Bobby called while you were asleep. Gave me directions to the latest business."

"Least it's not Lawrence," Dean grumbled.

"You want to eat first?"

"Get drive through," Dean shook his head once. "Let's just get this over with."

Sam shot a quick look to Dean in the passenger seat, liking what he heard in his brother's voice. He couldn't help but wonder if whatever had repaired Dean was still at work. Even the darkness beneath his eyes had lightened.

"Ready to smoke this sonuvabitch."

Resolve. Duty. Readiness to do the job Dean had sworn to complete when he was drafted into this war at age four, that he re-upped for time and again, that he pledged to finish with his soul as collateral.

"Y'know," Sam teased as he pulled through a fast-food drive through. "Just because Bob went up in smoke doesn't mean they all will…"

Dean shot a look at him. "One little miracle and you're all about the humor, that it?"

"Pretty much," Sam slipped his mouth into a small grin as he leaned out of the window, ordering hamburgers and fries.

"Get me one of those apple pie things," Dean called out.

"And one… apple pie… thing," Sam said into the speaker. He pulled his head back in when he was given the total. "You and your friggin' pie," he shook his head.

"Hey," Dean shrugged. "We all have our Achilles Heel."

Sam took the bag of food from the window, handed over cash, and pulled away as Dean noisily sank his teeth into a burger.

"God, food never tasted so good," Dean sighed. "I may actually watch the sunset tonight."

"Okay, Ponyboy," Sam laughed. "Don't go all _Nothing Gold Can Stay_ on me."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Never mind," Sam waved a hand at him. "Here we go, the Tumbleweed Inn."

"Sounds like our kind of place," Dean agreed around a mouthful of fries.

They pulled in and Dean waited in the car while Sam checked them in. When he saw Sam walking out of the office, he opened the door and headed to the trunk. They gathered their duffels, weapons, and Sam's laptop, then headed to their room.

"So," Sam said, dropping his bag on the far bed, turning as Dean pulled one of the chairs out from the small table. "Bobby says this demon has apparently been hanging around awhile."

"Like how long?" Dean licked apple pie filling off of his fingers, glancing up at Sam.

Sam quirked his lips into a frown. "A week at least."

"Oh great," Dean flopped a frustrated hand in the air. "While we're off playing Brad Pitt and Morgan Freeman after some freak angel on a power trip, one of these sonsabitches has been right here."

Sam pulled his eyebrows up in a question. "Which one of us is Brad Pitt?"

Dean simply looked at him.

"Okay, fine," Sam shrugged. "Yeah, so we lost a week, but, Dean… that hunt… that was necessary."

"Yeah?" Dean balled up a wrapper and tossed it back into the bag of food. "How do you figure?"

Sam sighed, dropping heavily on the bed, his elbows on his knees, hand hanging between his legs. "Because if we don't have faith… in something… we're not gonna make it through the rest of this year."

Dean swallowed and looked away. He pressed his lips against his teeth in thought.

"You gonna eat?" he finally asked.

"Yeah," Sam stood, crossing to the table, and unwrapped a hamburger. "Wow," he commented, looking at the burger. "This looks… terrible."

"Looks better than it tastes," Dean stood, heading to the bag of weapons. "But it's food. And I feel like a new man."

Sam shoved half of the burger into his mouth, watching Dean. He was moving steadier than he had earlier in the day. Adding food and to a few hours of sleep seemed to have done wonders. Sam found himself thinking about the nights they'd gone without sleep, the nightmares, seemingly endless in their torture, the cracked shells of truth that had been revealed as they played the angel's game.

He picked up the book of exorcisms, thinking briefly of Father Simons. _If that man only knew…_ Sam shoved the small book into his back pocket. When they made it through this exorcism, they were taking a break. A nice, long, _real_ break. He needed it. _Dean_ needed it. They needed to be able to watch sunsets without counting the number of times left to do so. They needed to be able to get drunk and play pool and drive fast and listen to music and pick up girls and bullshit each other and—

"You know we're gonna save this one, right?"

Dean's voice broke into his thoughts.

"What?"

"I've seen that look," Dean ejected the clip from his .45, checked it against the grip, then shoved it back in and slid the feeder back to load the bullet, flicking the safety on. "You're worried that we're going to lose this one."

Sam blinked. It hadn't been the possessed human he'd been worried about losing. "We can't lose them all," he replied.

"Exactly," Dean picked up a shotgun sawed off well below the legal eighteen inches. "This time will be different."

Sam watched as Dean shoved several rock-salt filled shells into the shotgun. Finishing his grease-laden dinner, he joined his brother at the bed, picking up his own weapons and inspecting them. _This time will be different… _He knew that. He _felt _that. And he was buoyed by Dean's assertion. Whether it was because he felt that they had something on their side, or if he just thought the odds were in their favor, when Dean believed, Sam believed nothing could stop them.

Sliding his arms into the sleeves of his leather jacket, Dean shoved a gun in his waistband, then another in the pocket of his coat. Putting a rosary and flask of holy water in his other pocket, he picked up the shotgun and looked up at Sam.

"Need this?"

Sam lifted a shotgun and a 9mm, cocking them. "This oughta do."

Dean nodded, then tucked the shotgun inside his coat as he opened the door, glancing both ways, then stepping outside. Sam followed, heading to the passenger side.

"Hey, Sam," Dean called before he opened the driver's door.

"Yeah?"

"Red sky at night," he nodded behind Sam, who turned to see the vibrant colors of the sun as it retreated from the sky, giving way to a blanket of stars the crept out to illuminate the darkness.

Sam grinned sadly as he slid into the car. _280 sunsets left… _

www

"You sure this is the right place?"

Sam nodded, but then realized it was now too dark for Dean to see him. "Yep—Bobby was pretty specific. Zen Zero on 6th. Entrance in the back unlocked."

"How the hell does he know this stuff?" Dean grumbled.

Sam heard the hammer on Dean's .45 click. "He's Bobby," he replied.

Sam felt Dean's hand on his chest, shoving him back against the alley wall. He was pressed close to his brother's arm in the thick darkness, smells of garbage from nearby dumpsters coiling around them and making his eyes water. Dean slid along the wall beside him and Sam followed closely.

"Found the door," Dean said, his voice low, ready.

"Hear anything?"

"No."

Sam felt Dean shift and heard the door creak. _Guess Bobby was right about that_…

Holding his breath, unsure what would be waiting for them on the other side of this door, Sam followed his brother inside. They crept through the darkened, quiet kitchen area, light from the doorway in front of them casting an odd, silvery glow on Dean's arm and the glimpse of his profile that Sam caught.

"You ready?" Dean whispered over his shoulder.

Sam saw him reach into his pocket and return his hand to the light gripping the rosary and flask in his fingers.

"Yeah," Sam said, adjusting his grip on his gun and tightening the muscles in his stomach as Dean pushed open the door leading from the kitchen to the dining area.

The room was decorated in traditional Japanese décor—paintings in rice of the countryside, fans and katanas mounted and crossed on the wall, lanterns and bamboo separating the table. The empty room was dimly lit and it took their eyes a few moments to adjust to the change in surroundings.

Dean heard the wailing first. A language he couldn't begin to understand tumbled in a wet rush from the lips of a woman kneeling on the floor about five feet away from them. Long, straight, jet-black hair curtained her bowed face and spread like a dark wing across her back. One hand supported her trembling body against the floor, blood leaving a smear of fingerprints on the wood, and the other was stretched out in supplication toward the figure of a young girl.

A young girl that was currently holding a katana aloft, face pale with rage, eyes dark with fury. Unnaturally dark. Demonic dark.

"Dean—"

"I know," Dean hissed.

The demon's eyes hit his and Dean flinched.

"So you're done playing with angels, are you?" The voice that emanated from the girl's throat caused Dean's skin to crawl and his lip to twitch up in a reflexive snarl. "Rushed right over to join the fun?"

"Better late than never," Dean snapped. "Drop the sword, sweetheart. You might hurt someone."

The demon laughed. "I've barely begun to cause her pain." It looked down at the woman pleading in Japanese, saliva running out of her mouth and mucus from her nose as she wept. "Seeing her precious girl like this is only part of the fun."

"Sam," Dean said in a low voice, ticking his head slight in his brother's direction.

"Right behind you," Sam said.

Without further communication, Dean lunged forward. Catching the arrogant being by surprise, Dean slammed himself bodily into the young girl, knocking the katana from her hand and pinning her writhing body beneath him. Sam collected the weeping mother and tucked her behind him until he got her safely to the corner of the room, away from the girl and near the sword should she need to grab it.

"SAM!" Dean cried out, his body bucking as the young girl shoved up against him, growling and screeching. "Could use a hand here!"

Sam scrambled along the floor, pulling out the book of exorcisms as he did so. Reaching his panting brother, he grabbed one of the girl's clawed hands, slamming it against the floor with more force than he'd like, trying to keep her down. Dean used his teeth to twist off the cap of the flask, and pour the holy water on the girl's face.

The demon inside of her screamed in pain and her small body jolted in resistance.

"Hold her!" Dean yelled, grabbing the book from Sam.

Holding the rosary over the girl's face, he began to read the exorcism, raising his voice over the screams of the demon. Just as he reached _In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit_ the girl stopped struggling. Silence beat through the room and against Dean's ears with angry wings.

"Wha—"

He wasn't able to finish as the girl suddenly arched, crying out in real, soul-searing pain as a dark cloud shot from her mouth. Sam ducked; Dean twisted his body away. Then all was silent once more.

"That was… different," Dean panted.

Sam simply nodded.

"Mama?" The young girl's raspy, worn voice bounced off of Dean's heart. "Where's…"

Instinctively, Sam reached out, grabbing the girl up gently from the floor, knowing her body was battered and bruised not only from whatever the demon put her through, but from his brother body-slamming her to the ground.

"Hey," Sam crooned softly. "You're okay, now, okay? It's gone."

The girls sobbed, curling into Sam's chest, then reached up to wrap her arms around his neck. Sam covered her back with his long arms, lifting sad hazel eyes to meet his brother's.

Dean licked his lips, pressing them together as he watched Sam comfort the trembling girl. _Not over…_It had been too easy. He didn't trust the waif currently wrapped in Sam's protective embrace. He was going to watch—

The screech shook him.

Before he was able to react, the weeping woman that Sam had hidden in the corner of the room launched forward, the discarded katana held before her, and rushed at Dean. He stood, shotgun in hand, and started to take aim.

Strength born from the icy fires of hell drove into him, launching him across the room and slamming him against the far wall, shaking the gun from his grip, the air from his lungs and landing him in a loose pile of limbs at the base of the wall.

"DEAN!"

"St-stay there," Dean wheezed, pushing himself up. As he did so, two display fans, a sword, and a painting crashed down around his head. "Sam!" He barked. "Keep her out of this."

"But—"

"Always the guardian," the demon inside of the woman hissed. "Always so ready to sacrifice… what makes you think you have anything left that we even want?"

Dean struggled to a sitting position, his clutching hands finding exactly what he needed. "Maybe the fact that you freaks keep coming after me?"

"Oh, so _we're_ the freaks…"

Dean wiped blood from his bottom lip with the back of his hand, buying time until he could stop his legs from trembling long enough to hold his weight. Curling his fingers around the grip of the katana he'd felt on the floor, he leveraged himself to his feet.

"Yeah," he gasped. "You're about as freaky as they come."

With a growl, the demon advanced, raising the katana high and slicing it through the air for a killing blow. On pure instinct, Dean brought his sword up, blocking the blow, then twisted his arms to the side, blocking another. Stepping forward, Dean pressed the advantage the element of surprise had offered him and swung the sword in a strong arc toward the possessed woman's neck.

"Dean, no!" Sam cried out, distracting him, and throwing his aim off just enough that the woman was able to bring her sword up and clash against his with a resounding echo of metal.

Dean was thirsty for air, sweating, trembling from prior blood loss and exertion, but he was in the thick of it now. Backing up a step he swung the sword to the side, blocking blow after blow until he was near up against another wall.

"Ah, screw this Jedi shit," he grumbled, flipping the katana around his wrist and with the speed of a snake and grace of a cat, slammed the butt of the katana hilt into the woman's face, dropping her to the ground. Panting, he looked over at Sam who still clutched the terrified girl in his arms. "Last Samurai, my ass."

He saw Sam start to grin, then saw fear skitter across Sam's face one second too late. The demon lifted the body it inhabited with unnatural speed, thrusting the woman's delicate hand out and gripping Dean's throat, slamming him bodily against the wall and tilting its head in mild amusement as it slowly squeezed precious air from Dean's lungs.

Dean clawed desperately at her hand, spots dancing at the edge of his vision, his lips tingling. He couldn't feel his body. His head seemed to be growing in size. Pressure like he'd never felt was twisting his heart inside of his chest.

"NO!" Sam shouted, launching to his feet, the girl still in his arms. "No way… not this time."

Turning, Sam released the girl, dropping her in a trembling heap and cast about quickly for the exorcism book.

"You're going back to hell if I have to take you there myself," Sam growled, his eyes finally lighting on the book.

"S-sam…" Dean wheezed through frozen lips.

Sam grabbed the rosary and the book, turning to stop this thing from killing his brother, then stopped in shocked surprise as she loosened her grip, leaning forward so that her lips were hovering over Dean's almost touching. Sam watched as Dean gasped, coughing, choking on the air he was so desperate for. Tipping her head up slightly so that if she wanted she could take one of Dean's lips between her own, the demon spoke.

"You two may have defeated an angel," her voice flowed over her tongue like water, dripping with an edge designed to pierce the heart, "but no one can stand up to_ his_ army."

Dean looked at the opaque dark of her eyes, framed with a sneer of arrogance.

"You b-bastards think y-you've won," Dean managed, his eyes steel. "But when… m-my brother and I are done… there's only… gonna be… one hundred ninety-five of you f-freaks left."

Her eyes only seemed to glisten more within their black depths at that, her smile broadening, twisting up the corners. She moved to his ear, her lips brushing against his cheek.

"You only wish there were that few of us walking around up here," she said, ending with a light breath of air, a punctuated laugh that ground through him, making him twist his head away. Dimly, as if from miles away, he heard Sam reading the exorcism rite.

"There're all kinds of Hell, Dean. It's not the _fairytale_ your Dante made it look like. Ask yourself what you fear the most. What would be hell for you, Dean Winchester?" she asked, her body jerking, resisting the drag as the tainted soul within fought against the words destined to return it to Hell.

Dean could feel her lips taunt the flesh of his cheek before she pulled away to face him. Her bony fingers slipped from his neck to his jaw, yanking his face downward, forcing him to look into her eyes. Dean felt like he was being swallowed up, distorted within the dark black. He shoved her back in disgust, catching her off guard. Slumping back against the wall, he slid down it until he came to a stop, still reeling from her attack, legs suddenly not as strong as he wished they were.

The woman landed on her back, pushing to her elbows, looking over at him, a laugh starting at the back of her throat and dancing its way along her tongue. It morphed into a full-bodied cackle and Dean recoiled, knowing she was mocking him.

He heard the last words of the exorcism come from Sam and his eyes redirected to his brothers face. He could see Sam's brow furrowed in anger, eyes cold, as the final_amen_ passed the space between the three of them. The exorcism book snapped shut in Sam's hand and the demon's laugh ended in a memory-branding scream, her head canting back at an unhealthy angle as the demon within dark mist clawed up through the woman's throat and was dispelled into the night, back to Hell.

The woman collapsed against the floor, breathing in deep, uneven heaves, tears webbing along her cheeks as she curled onto her side. Her daughter had been standing behind Sam, holding to his shirt. The second that she saw her mother cry, she let go of Sam and ran forward, speaking soothingly in Japanese as knelt beside her mother and stroked her hair. The woman pushed up onto her hands and took the girl into her arms, sobbing against her neck, while her daughter hid her own tears in her mom's blouse.

Sam and Dean exchanged knowing glances, both slightly awe-filled and relieved. One less demon. Those saved, still alive. The lines in Sam's face softened as he dropped the exorcism book onto one of the dining room tables. Dean let his head fall back against the wall, watching the family before him, detached.

Sam started forward to help him, but Dean held up a hand. He needed a moment to find his balance and he was set on getting up on his own. After a few slow breaths, he pushed to his feet, using the wall and the katana as support.

Sam knelt next to the woman and her daughter, still clutching each other. Seeing Sam close, the woman reached out, taking hold of the edge of Sam's shirt. The gratitude pouring between the tears on her lips in mixed English and Japanese. Sam bent close, making sure they were both all right, but his gaze kept going to Dean who was standing shakily against the wall, katana gripped loosely in one hand. Sam watched the blade fall against the carpet before Dean started to slowly walk toward the door along the wall, shoulder pressed into it.

"Dean?"

Dean paused, "'M okay. Take care of them. I'll meet you outside."

Sam watched his brother push from the wall and make his way back through the doors they'd come through, not convinced that Dean was okay on his own. Everything within Sam wanted to follow, but he had been left to clean up, and the way the woman was holding onto his shirt now, he knew he couldn't make a clean break right away.

Grasping her gently at her upper arms, Sam helped her to a chair, maneuvering carefully around the young girl who was unwilling to part from her mother's embrace. He then set about righting the tipped-over tables, picking the artwork up off the floor and replacing the weaponry on the wall. While he moved, Sam kept up a steady stream of reassuring, calming words, assuring the woman and her daughter that things would be okay now.

Sam set up the last chair, looking at the women and her daughter. The woman held her head in her hands, staring blankly at the wall as her tears subsided, her daughter holding onto her mother's arm, watching Sam. He managed a smile, bringing out a shy one from the girl.

"You take care of your mom, okay?" Sam instructed softly.

She nodded, telling him _thank you_ softly in Japanese. Sam recognized_arigato _out of the flow of words tumbling gracefully from her lips. He heard another word he thought he remembered meant warrior. Whatever she had said, he could see the adoration in her big brown eyes.

"Go. Please. Take care of him," the girl said, nodding toward the door Dean had disappeared through.

Sam was taken back for a second, but nodded. "Yeah, I'll do that."

The woman turned in her chair lifting her daughter onto her lap and rested her cheek on her daughters head. Her expression was gaining strength, her overwhelmed eyes softening with fatigue.

"We'll be fine," she said eventually. "Because of what you've done… We are grateful beyond words."

Sam knew she was releasing him from his watch. He turned to go, but the girl asked him to wait.

"Take it with you," she said, nodding to the katana that Dean had dropped.

Sam tried to protest, but the woman nodded as well.

"Please," she whispered.

He picked up the sword on his way toward the kitchen, feeling the weight of the weapon in his hands, running the blade between his open palms and thumbs. _Dean's gonna get a kick out of this..._

The thought of his brother hastened his leave. Tucking the sword under one arm he pushed through the kitchen, winding around the shelves of food and stoves until he broke out into the alley and into the arms of the lovely smell they'd discovered earlier.

He fished for his phone as he walked back to the car, dialing up Bobby.

"It's been one hell of a week, Bobby," Sam said, bowling over any greeting.

_"You two all right? What happened in Wichita?"_

Sam always found Bobby's concern refreshing. He was one of the few people left in their lives that actually gave a damn.

"Demon's gone. It's done. And so are we. For a while anyway..."

_"Need a place to crash?"_

Sam smiled. "The old scrap-yard never sounded so good."

_"Who the hell said I was offering you __**my **__home, boy?"_

Sam laughed, the sound echoing off the walls of the alley. "See you in two days?"

_"I'll leave the light on and the salt out."_

He closed his phone and put it away, taking the katana out from under his arm to hold down at his side. The Impala came into view as Sam stepped from the alley and out into cooler, fresher air.

Dean was lying on the hood, his back against the windshield, staring up at the night sky. He heard Sam approaching and he turned his head just as Sam tossed him the sword. He caught it, sitting up to look it over.

"Sweet," he grinned. "Now we can take on vamps _Blade_ style."

Sam smirked, remembering Dean's expression when their father had shown them his machete. He wondered what he'd think of Dean with a Japanese sword.

Sam joined Dean on the hood, relieved to see that Dean looked better than he had in the restaurant. Sam knew it would be touch and go like this for a while, until Dean got his strength back, and he wanted them to rest for at least a couple of weeks. Realistically and sadly he knew he shouldn't be too shocked when those weeks would turn into days. Keeping Dean down for much longer would require rope and heavy sedation.

Sam leaned back against the cool glass with a groan, the muscles in his back settling. "I'm ready to sleep for a week." He shot a quick glance over at Dean. "No Sloth jokes."

Dean was staring up at the stars again, not really paying attention. The tick of his lips at the corner was the only indication that he'd even heard Sam.

"Hey, Sammy?"

"Hmm?"

"Was it you who told me the light from some stars can be seen even though the star died like a million years ago? Thing's gone, but it's still there…in a way…"

Sam frowned. "Who are you and what have you done with my brother?"

Dean shrugged, sitting up. He gave Sam a half sad, half crazy grin that tipped the corners of his eyes back.

"Maybe all of this is isn't about you saving me from demons in eleven months. Maybe it's about what I'm supposed to be doing… how I'm supposed to be living, during these months. Maybe it's so someone sees _me_… even after I'm gone."

Sam nodded slowly, digesting Dean's words, hating the way they settled on his chest like a pile of stones. He sat up as well, looking down the street stretched out before them. All roads had an end, but he wouldn't stop hoping that theirs had a longer stretch together. Longer than a year…longer then many years…

He sighed. "I don't want you gone, Dean. I want you here. Alive. Being a pain in my ass…"

Dean tipped his head down at that, smiling a little. "I know."

In that moment Dean wished he could say _it's not over 'til it's over._ At least he was finally able to think it. It had taken going to 'Hell' and back to figure out the possibility he could be saved was there. He wasn't ready yet to admit it out loud; hadn't made that deal thinking he'd get out. He was ready to pay his debt, but his remaining days didn't have to be about _last_ moments, just_lasting _moments.

Dean faced Sam. "Maybe it's not up to us."

_We'll see about that,_ Sam thought. He didn't respond for a while, eyes fixed again on the road. The fire from before was aflame inside of him once more. He would save Dean. Any shred of doubt succumbed to that burning resolve.

"Yeah, well," Sam exhaled, swinging his legs back over the side and getting to his feet. He pulled the Impala keys from his jacket and shrugged. "We've got a couple of days off before we have to meet Bobby."

Dean slid off the hood and started for the passenger side door. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. So…what do you want to do?"

Dean's grin was all the answer he needed.

www

Playlist:

For those who asked for Zeppelin…

_Fool In the Rain_

_For Your Life_

_Black Dog_

As a thank you, Sojourner has created a vid for this story, set to Breaking Benjamin's "Evil Angel." We truly hope you enjoy. (Replace the things in parenthesis with what it says. Can't post urls here.) http://www(dot)youtube(dot)com/watch?v(equals)zZYyRK77dPk


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